


The Songstress and The Swordsman

by Verdigirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Arranged Marriage, Art, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Chronic Pain, Cover Art, Digital Art, Digital Painting, Drama, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Herbalism, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Language Barrier, Mage Fenris (Dragon Age), Magic, Medieval Medicine, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Moral Dilemmas, Musicians, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character(s), Ostwick (Dragon Age), POV Fenris (Dragon Age), Poisoning, Political Alliances, Political Campaigns, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Character, Sieges, Slice of Life, Starkhaven (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 122,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22953652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdigirl/pseuds/Verdigirl
Summary: Fenris's life upends itself when he finds a wounded fugitive in an alley, after slavers attack him on the way home from the Hanged Man. With no money, no knowledge of Common, and the barest understanding of Tevene, it becomes clear he was the only one in Kirkwall that could help her. Neither he nor his life would ever be the same again. A tale of love, betrayal, and vengeance woven with court intrigue, magic, and demise.Story will be updated every other week.
Relationships: Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Fenris/Original Female Character(s), Sebastian Vael/Original Character(s), Sebastian Vael/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 260
Kudos: 155





	1. A Strange Salvation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia, betas extraordinaire! And to all leaving kudos, I'm glad you're enjoying the story :)
> 
> June 2020 update: I’ve given this tale a shiny new coat of paint since first publishing! Tell me what you think in the comments. 
> 
> Cover art by me, Verdigirl :)  
> The border, letter S, and the sword featured in the cover art are actual medieval illuminations from the 13-15th centuries. The embellishments on the S are mine, though. The blue is the original. :)
> 
> I'm painting my way through the characters of S&S! Rana is featured in Ch 4, and Fenris is in Ch 6.
> 
> I’m a classically trained musician by trade, so music and its meaning play a big part in my creative process. Music, to me, really adds an immersive element to stories, especially historical settings. So I thought I’d share a bit of my writing playlist that I listen to while writing 'The Songstress and the Swordsman,' and explain a bit about the songs. Here is the Spotify Link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5
> 
> I'll include Youtube links in the chapter notes, for convenience. :)

Fenris wished he never came to Varric’s card game at the Hanged Man, that night.

He promised Varric he would, but his brands had been utterly unbearable all week—no pain tinctures he took seemed to help. As an elf of good stature and strength, he could shrug off pain; he’d spent thirteen years with this filigree carved into him. The brands usually throbbed and burned every day, but this day they raged like a sun under his skin. He _should’ve_ stayed home, but Fenris of Kirkwall was a man of his word.

Fenris sighed into his cup of vinegar parading around as cheap wine. The Hanged Man was a loud tavern, even here in Varric’s quarters. Whining flutes and droning bagpipes were _just_ out of tune enough to set his teeth on edge. He barely paid attention to the conversation around him. Like every other time he attended Varric’s card games, he found himself being swindled out of his weekly food budget. Damned cheaters. Bread again, that week. Bread, and Marian Hawke sucking the Abomination's face off across the table.

A candle burned in Fenris's gut. She was doing it just to spite him, he was convinced of it. Marian’s steely blue eye flicked to him whenever the two came up for air, searching for his reaction. He did not deign her with one. Three years after their relationship had died, and she still found pleasure in taunting him with the man Fenris called the Abomination.

Marian hated when he called Anders 'Abomination.' It wasn't _his_ name for him, but that was the term for a possessed mage. He used his magic to heal the sick and poor, but Anders was still, in Fenris's eyes, the Abomination. A ridiculously tall, wiry man who needed a good scrubbing and an exorcism. Or the executioner; Fenris wasn’t picky. Anders put them all in danger with his misguided political activism and his 'mages' rights' movement: Fenris of Kirkwall, formerly of Minrathous, called things as he saw them, and no amount of free healing services could make Anders more palatable to his taste.

Marian was _still_ kissing that despicable man.

The stone chair Fenris sat in did not help his disposition. He had once again forgotten to bring his cushion. When could he go home without seeming rude? Staying for forty-five minutes was polite enough, wasn’t it? Fenris made his goodbyes and slipped out the door.

Hence how he found himself cornered by four slavers on his way home.

Fenris kept his back to the grimy whitewashed wall of a storefront. He fell into a defensive stance, longsword at the ready. His assailants were heavily armored, with the tell-tale helmets he’d grown to despise over the years—Tevinter slavers. They preyed on the unsuspecting, the invisible: elves, the poor. In Fenris’s case, they were his master’s lackeys, sent to recapture him. He parried a sword and struck under a man’s arm, puncturing his lung. A slaver attacked from above, over his shoulder, and Fenris scrambled to counter. His blade shook under the impact. He dodged from another attack and struck under the man’s ribs. Strike, parry, flank. The third one fell, and the fourth soon afterwards. Fenris gulped in air, leaning on his blade. The usual ‘post-combat’ pains set in; he prepared himself for the painful walk home when he heard a groan behind him.

“Show yourself,” he cried, blade up. He scanned the alleyway, eyes searching for the source. There wasn’t anyone he could see, but a slaver could easily hide behind a stack of crates. Fenris cautiously made his way further down the alley, gripping the sweat-soaked hilt of his sword.

A dark shape was sprawled on the cobblestones. Fenris narrowed his eyes at it. A sleeping beggar, perhaps? What beggar could ever sleep through that fight? He tapped the shape with the flat of his blade and jumped back with a gasp. A woman rolled onto her back, unconscious. He leaned in. She was of slight build, with delicate features not usually found here in the slums of Kirkwall. Her high cheekbones gave her an almost aristocratic air. She certainly wasn’t an elf, with her rounded ears. Fenris knew he was just shy of six feet tall, and this girl looked as though she’d reach his nose, so her being a dwarf was out, but that wasn't what surprised him. It was her clothes… the black leggings and tunic, her kohl-rimmed eyes, the myriad of bangles she wore. So unlike the riot of colors Kirkwallers wore. She almost looked like a fellow countryman, a fellow Tevinter. Olive-skinned like him, black-brown hair. The dark puddle spreading under her head startled him from his staring. Whoever this woman was, she was quite beautiful and needed medical attention quickly.

He heaved a sigh. Home was too far of a walk, and all the nearby apothecaries were closed for the night. He couldn’t leave her here to bleed out on the stones. The only man that could help was—Fenris’s mouth soured as he bundled the girl in his arms and hurried down the alley towards the Hanged Man.

He kicked the tavern’s front door open, shuffling in. Several patrons sober enough to stand ushered him in, clearing a path. The barmaid ran upstairs to Varric’s rooms, no doubt to alert his friends. Fenris nearly dropped the girl twice on the way there.

“What in the Void happened?” The Abomination confronted him at the door, demanding answers as the others cleared the stone table. They stretched the girl out for examination.

“Slavers,” Fenris replied, breathing heavily. He fished around in his belt pouch and took a swig of pain tincture. “Four against one. Ambush.” He leaned against the wall, catching his breath. “I-I found her in the alley.”

The others mostly ignored him, watching the Abomination examine the girl. Fenris’s body throbbed with his heartbeat. Conversation was the last thing on his mind.

“Ye did well bringing her here,” a voice said next to him. “Ye’re a good man, Fenris.”

He didn’t need to look to know it was Sebastian; Fenris would know that rolling accent anywhere. He gave his friend a side glance and scoffed. “It looked like she needed help immediately.”

“Aye, but many would’ve kept walking.” Sebastian crossed his arms across his broad chest, leaning against the wall. “Ye might be a sellsword, but ye’ve got yer honor… unlike our host,” he whispered.

Fenris’s mouth twitched. Varric was, on paper, an upstanding member of the Dwarven Merchant Guild, but his exact profession escaped definition. Shady businessman, spy, mercenary, part-owner of a Rivaini beet farm. It was no secret Sebastian disliked him.

The Abomination, meanwhile, wiped his hands on his robes and sighed. "She broke her wrist and twisted her ankle," he said, disinfecting the cut on her arm with some whiskey. "And there's a nasty gash on her head. Seems she fell." Fenris wasn’t surprised. If she'd worn those foolhardy heels while running from slavers, no wonder she'd fallen. But what sort of girl would do that?

 _'A fool,'_ the voice in his head replied. _'A pretty fool.'_ Fenris put some distance between him and the table, for the brands' sake. Even if he was a healer, the Abomination's magic and the energy it radiated felt like holding his hand in burning, biting cold fire.

"Varric," Marian called from the corner, "ye need to see this." The girl's lurid pink satchel was tossed to the side, forgotten. "Never in me life have I seen such things." A pocketbook, embossed with whiskers and a cat nose, with metal rectangles inside. "Have ye ever seen such a thing?"

Fenris leaned in. The white rectangle bore runes none had ever seen, with a black stripe on the back of it. “Her portrait. I’ve never seen one so small," he said. Startlingly lifelike, it was. They stared in astonishment. Whoever painted it was incredibly skilled.

"What _is_ this," Varric asked.

The girl stirred on the table. The Abomination pulled his chair closer. "You're awake. Good," he said, "I'm Anders. What's y—" The girl shrieked and rolled off the table. "You're safe! _You're alright._ "

She scrambled away on all fours, whimpering from the pain. " _Trekné,_ " she screamed, " _Ya eben el sharmouta, trekné._ " She shot into the corner, arms wrapped around herself, eyes never off Anders. Fenris knew that look, had seen it many a time in Tevinter. Unbridled terror. The expression a slave had after a beating, before the hopelessness set in.

Anders threw his hands up in exasperation. "Maker's Breath, what are we to do with her? She’s a wild animal."

Fenris bit his lip, shifting his weight. Sometimes, moving helped with the pain. Sometimes. "You remind her of someone. Someone she fears greatly."

" _Adiuava,_ " the girl said. Fenris froze. The girl wasn't staring at the Abomination, now; she'd fixed her gaze on Fenris. " _Quaeso._ "

"What's she saying?" Sebastian asked, jostling his shoulder. "Fenris?"

"She's asking for help, I think," he heard himself say. Her thick accent obscured her Tevene, if he could even call it that. It _sounded_ like Tevene, but it wasn't what he knew. A dialect, perhaps? Fenris unbuckled his gauntlets and handed them to Sebastian, who nearly cut himself on the bladed fingertips.

Fenris crossed the room to her. "You are safe, they are dead," he said in Tevene. Low, in as kind a voice he could muster. "Who are you?" The girl's shoulders tensed, but she did not bolt.

"I am Rana." She gripped her arms to stop the shaking. He steeled himself from the burn and patted her hand.

"Do not fear them. They are friends." He used short sentences, to help her understand. "I am Fenris. You are a slave?" Her eyes went wide.

He reassured her. "I was one, too." He pointed to himself. "Slave. You?" Her eyes fell to the floor. Must have been, poor thing. "You are safe. Do you have coin? How do you come here?"

"I," her eyes filled, "I do not know. I-I," she pantomimed falling and hitting her head. He stared at her, stomach clenching. Should he believe her? Her injuries supported her claim, but she could easily lie to gain his trust. 

"What did she say?" Varric asked.

Fenris startled. "S-She must be a runaway. No money, doesn't remember how she got here."

 _‘What if Danarius sent her?’_ The voice in his head asked. He pushed it away. His old master _could_ have sent her. Danarius had been trying to recapture him for the past eight, ten years, with no success. Perhaps this was his latest tactic…

Fenris sighed. "She'll be captured if we let her go, she's in no condition to keep running."

"So. Who'll take her?" The Abomination asked. They stared at him. "Can't keep her here. Our house is out, too."

Fenris’s eyes went wide when they all turned to him. "Well, _I_ don't know what to do with her!"

Sebastian smiled. "Ye did fine, when ye calmed her. Just fine. We dinnae have anyone else. Just for the night. Ye can do that, aye?" Fenris shot his friend a 'please shut up' glare.

He bit his lip and looked to the girl. What was she? What if Danarius _had_ sent her? His brands tingled; his palms itched. He wanted to run from the room and never look back, but he couldn't. H-He couldn't just _do_ that—they were all staring at him again, this time at his brands flickering in reaction to his nervousness.

Fenris sighed. "One night. I'll go tell her." His common sense beat on his skull, begged him not to do it, but he couldn't renege. Fenris of Kirkwall was a man of his word, after all.

The walk home from the tavern with Sebastian, Marian, and the Abomination was slow. They had fashioned a crutch of sorts for Rana, but her limping slowed their pace considerably. Fenris fell into his usual—scan shadows, check corners, listen. Keep an eye on his companions at all times. Marian and the Abomination had gone ahead, as they were wont to do, whispering and giggling. It made his stomach churn. Marian waved from her vestibule before locking her door. Much to his dismay, part of his courage went with her. Fenris and his new shadow stopped at the Chantry's side door to drop off Sebastian.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Fenris said. _‘If she doesn’t drug me and sell me to slavers, first,’_ he added silently. He prayed to the Maker that she wasn’t a mage, ready to cast a spell the moment he was alone with her.

"First thing tomorrow, after morning prayer, we'll find a place for her. I promise." The door shut, and left him alone with the girl.

He stuffed down the panic clawing its way up his ribcage. "Come, this way." The abandoned mansion he called home was on the end of the row, next to the alley. It hid behind its curtain of ivy, unassuming; the perfect hiding place for a fugitive slave. Rana tried her best to thank him on the way, to remark on his 'good,' as she called it. It didn’t belay the heady mix of dread, attraction, and vigilance he was soaking in.

"You are good. I give you thanks." He fiddled around with the finicky lock.

"Thank you. 'I give you thanks.' Thank you." He stole a glance. She cocked her head, moonlight dancing pearlescent on her skin.

"Ah! Thank you." He lit the taper he kept by the door and led her to the well, or tried to. She kept stopping and staring at the atrium.

"It is," she drew her hands apart. 'Big.'

"Mhmm." It was dilapidated, with missing floor tiles and holes in the cavernous ceiling, but still impressive. He felt slightly embarrassed it was in such disrepair, but, as he reminded himself at the well, his expertise ended at longswords and weapons. The only hammer he knew to wield was a warhammer.

Fenris got out the washbasins and a housecoat for Rana to wear. He knew he wouldn't get much sleep. The brands were absolute agony from the fight at the Hanged Man, even his sleepshirt bothered him. He shook out his detested bed roll and laid it out beside his bed. Rana stared at him in disbelief.

"What?" He asked.

"Y-You sleep here?" She clutched the housecoat to her chest. " _Yi,_ you sleep _here?_ "

"To make us safe." He slid his spare longsword next to his bed roll. "See? Safe."

Whether or not she believed him was yet to be seen, but she didn't run. The Chantry bells rang four times, he heaved a sigh. He waited until she climbed into his bed, and blew out the taper. Even though his body was exhausted, his mind raced with questions as to who this girl was, and where he could send her, come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Trekné: leave me alone  
> Eben el sharmouta: son of a b*tch  
> Ya: word used in Arabic to address someone, like 'O' ('O Fenris,' for example)  
> Yi: a versatile expression of shock or surprise
> 
> A/N: This chapter has gone through a LOT. It's seen life as Rana's point of view, Fenris's point of view. First person, third person POV. Written in English, Latin, Lebanese Arabic... to keep things authentic/realistic during the Rana POV draft, I translated all of Hawke and Co.'s dialogue into Old English/Anglo-Saxon, because they were speaking in Common, and Rana didn't understand Common. Also, because I must enjoy complicating my life or something. :)
> 
> What was the craziest thing you've researched or done for the sake of writing?
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> PS: Song at the Hanged Man: “Pastime with Good Company,” composed 1513  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsIbE51kPQs
> 
> This piece was written by King Henry VIII when he was 18 or 19, as a gift for his new queen, Catherine of Aragon. It became extremely popular, not only becoming a favorite among the English (heard at fairs and taverns), but it also traveling north to Scotland. It’s said to be one of Elizabeth I’s favorite songs!  
> Hundreds of years later, it’s still being played, famously covered by rock bands Jethro Tull, Blackmore’s Night, Gryphon, Serenity, and more.


	2. How Do You Solve A Problem Like Rana?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia, for beta-ing! Disclaimer: I own nothing but Rana
> 
> Check out the notes below for Youtube links to the music referenced in the story! And the Spotify playlist is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

The front door was _not_ supposed to be locked. Sebastian frowned. It was highly unlike Fenris to forget an appointment: they’d been friends for six years, and Fenris had never left Sebastian locked out. Loitering in front of abandoned houses was suspicious even for a Chantry brother like Sebastian. An almost-brother, technically—he hadn’t taken his final vows, after all. He was still Sebastian Reginald Corbinian Vael, rightful prince of Starkhaven. Being raised in the royal household, Sebastian wasn’t used to being kept waiting. He knocked again. Nothing. Concerned, he fished a key out of his pouch and made for the servants’ entrance off the alley.

He unsheathed his dagger, scanned the atrium for danger. If there were slavers, the door would’ve been broken in, there would be signs of a struggle. Unless they found the escape shutter…He took the stairs two at a time, praying he wasn’t too late. “Fenris?”

Drooling in his armchair and cocooned in a blanket wasn’t what he’d expected to find. Sebastian crossed the room to him. “Fenris?” No reaction. That wasn’t right. Fenris was a notoriously light sleeper. He tapped his friend’s foot. “Fenris?”

“Hn.”

What happened? He picked up the bottle from the table and squinted. ‘PAIN,’ the bottle said in a sure script. Pain tinctures. He probably took too much again, foolish elf. He heaved a sigh and went downstairs to the library, helping himself to a book. He hoped Fenris would wake up soon, they needed to decide what to do with Rana.

The morning had come and gone, he’d attended midday prayer service, and Fenris was _still_ dead to the world. Rana barely stirred when he entered their quarters. Had they both taken that vile stuff?

“Right,” Sebastian muttered to himself, “best make yerself useful.”

He checked his friend’s stock of food: a hunk of bread and cheese, barely enough for a meal. As he was hungry, himself, he went to market to stock his friend’s pantry before afternoon prayer. It was good fortune to have met Merrill and some of their friends. They agreed to meet at Fenris’s to brainstorm a solution for Rana. Upon their arrival, groceries in hand, they found smoke in the atrium. They skidded into the kitchen to find Rana attempting to cook on the hearth one-handed.

“ _Avete_ ,” she said. With her one good hand, she collected the rest of the charred bread and plopped it on the plate.

“What is going on here? I smelled smoke.” There was Fenris, blanket trailing behind, stark white hair standing on end. The sight of that hair made Sebastian shiver—despite being a young man still in his prime, Fenris had suffered such trauma in his youth as a slave, it turned his hair white. Unspeakable horrors at the hands of his master.

“Ya Fenris, _ave_ ,” the girl replied with a smile. The elf’s face softened. She pursed her fingers together and brought her hand to her mouth, pointing to him. He nodded. She gestured to the rest of them.

“She wants to know if you’re hungry. And _I_ want to know what’s going on. Why is everyone here?” Fenris asked.

“I-I was just about to wake ye, Fen,” Sebastian said.

“You’re watching her cook with a broken wrist and other injuries? _Venhedis._ ” The conversation abruptly ended when Fenris tossed his blanket on the chair and rolled his sleeves, asking Rana questions in that undulating tongue of theirs. Sebastian picked his jaw up from the floor and shoved Merrill out into the hall.

“…Did he just offer to cook with her?” she asked.

He crossed the atrium to the seldom, if ever, used dining room to join the rest of their friends. “Aye, I do believe he did.”

Who was this, and what had they done with Fenris?

* * *

“They might take her at the Chantry,” Sebastian said. “She’d be welcome there.”

“A Northern infidel in the Chantry? No,” Fenris replied.

“Despite the burnt toast, maybe we can send her to a kitchen,” Marian offered.

“Not for at least a fortnight,” the Abomination replied. “That was a bad head injury.”

So much for sending the girl on her way. Considering the unknown means by which she arrived, it was decided that staying with Fenris would be safest. She would require her own bedroom for propriety’s sake. 

Sebastian cleared the table of the plates and brought them into the kitchen, leaving the others to their debate. Rana followed behind, with her crutch. Floating, effortless notes like spun silver drifted in from across the atrium. Freefalling, like an autumn leaf. The table fell silent. They collectively got up from their seats and rushed across the atrium to the kitchen. 

“You can _sing_ ,” Fenris exclaimed in surprise. The others agreed. Rana startled and blinked at them, wide eyed. “Would the Hanged Man want her, Varric?”

The dwarf shrugged. “I’ll talk to the barkeep.”

Fenris nodded thanks, translating questions as well as he could for her. While she couldn’t answer many of them, she indulged every request for another song.

He’d never thought, in all his years, he’d share a house with a bard. A bard who…couldn’t play a lute. Did it matter? Her voice could make angels weep.The tone and color of her voice and the music was hauntingly beautiful; he’d never heard anything like it in his life. By the expressions on his friends’ faces, he knew they felt the same.

The next day, Fenris realized none of the clothes he found at the house fit Rana. He invited Isabela to help him find new clothing. She protested, being busy finding a crew for her newest sea voyage to the north.

“Why am I here, again?” Isabela asked as they browsed the fabric stalls of Hightown. Thanks to their dark complexions and Fenris’s pointy ears, they were relegated to the old stock and remnants. One of the stand attendants pretended to assemble a display nearby, folding the same piece of fabric as he watched them. Fenris stifled the eyeroll.

“Because. You’re the only other,” his face went hot, “you know.” He waved his hands near his chest. “‘Well-endowed’ woman I know.”

Isabela smirked. “She’s perfectly capable of dressing herself.”

“Come on,” Fenris said, “you’re getting a new hat out of it.”

Rana allowed the pirate captain to manhandle her into an Orlesian silk corset—he cringed at the price, but as Isabela said, ‘quality lasts.’ She suffered through Isabela tugging down chemise necklines, and smirked when the woman held up a pair of frilly underclothes sheer enough to see through.

Fenris saw a lot more of Rana than he anticipated, considering she was in naught but a chemise and a corset. And stockings tied on with scarlet ribbons, but that was beside the point, because he could _not_ take his eyes off of her chest and…The pirate had to shove him out of the room before she pissed herself laughing. He’d never hear the end of this. Isabela would spread this far and wide, thanks to her wagging tongue.

There were other places in Hightown Isabela insisted they visit. “A girl has to have accessories,” she purred in his ear, herding him down the street. “You wouldn’t want her to be shabby, now, would you?”

Was it horrible he couldn’t stop thinking of Rana in that corset? Or those stockings? His face was hot enough to cook an egg, he was certain. He brushed his hair to hide his ears. His undoubtedly red, tapered elven ears. They finally found the Antivan imports store she’d wanted, and mayhem descended.

“Ooh, look at this, sweet thing.” Isabela held up a pot of eye pigment. “You’d look beautiful in this.”

…They left that store with an unholy amount of jewelry, enough cosmetics to turn the entire Chantry into harlots, jasmine hair oil, and a painted elf. The girls had forced him to try two shades of eyeshadow, but he was pleased to have a happy Rana on his arm. He could think of worse ways to spend the afternoon, actually.

* * *

Rana straightened her new indigo dress and examined herself in the mirror. She’d spent the last two hours preparing for this interview and, by God’s will, she’d look glorious for it. She smacked her lips to spread the lipstick.

“ _Yalla_ ,” she said. Even if it was Lebanese, Fenris understood ‘let’s go.’ He escorted her to the door.

“You look pretty,” he said. “Are you _commota?_ ” He cringed, gauntlets creaking. Ah. ‘Nervous.’

“Mm, no.” As they walked to the Hanged Man, Fenris seemed more nervous than she was. Rana, on the other hand, was excited to sing and finally do what she loved and knew. Kirkwall was so harsh and alien to her; it was comforting to find a bit of sun in the dreariness. 

Varric met them at the door and asked Fenris questions in Common. She tried following their words, but they were clumsy and strange. She sighed. The only one she could talk to in this bizarre land was Fenris, and even _that_ was a process fraught with barriers and frustration. Miscommunication was the norm most days, and so she usually kept quiet, bottling up her thoughts and feelings. It wasn’t healthy, but her main concern was getting back home. She so appreciated having a roof over her head for the time being, and kept her patience with the language barrier.

Rana scanned the room while they conversed. It was crowded, just in time for lunch. Part of the challenge, Fenris had said. ‘If you can please _them_ , you can do anything.’ And she fully intended to. She was a professional—classically trained, first and foremost; there was nothing more rewarding than being onstage and bringing others joy through her singing.

“Rana,” Fenris said. “It’s time.”

She smiled. She’d put much thought into what she’d sing, that day. She needed something fun, exciting enough to keep the audience’s attention without music. She needed _Carmen._ Rana knew how to work an audience; she trailed her hand up a patron’s arm. He flashed a toothless grin.

She slowly sauntered to another table, favoring her ankle, perching on the end. The second verse came along, faster than the first, and while hair flips weren’t an option while singing opera… hiking her skirt up was. Up it went around her knee, to expose her scarlet stockings. She glanced at Fenris against the wall, and stifled the laugh; his eyes were going to fall out of his head.

The third verse was frenetically paced, after her high note. The men roared, pounding the wood in time with the melody. A few shoulder rolls—not much more, for fear of sacrificing her tone. She threw her good arm over her head and sang the finish. The full, rich note rang out like a bell. The room erupted into applause as she took a bow. Just as she’d planned it. Rana beamed all the way back to the bar.

“Well?” she asked in Tevene. “Is it good?” Ugh, she sounded so foolish not knowing the past tense. Fenris was so impressed and in awe, he was unable to translate.

“ _Quid est, quod carmen,_ ” he asked. “ _Pulchra est._ ”

“I don’t understand your words,” she said. “I hate that we can’t converse,” she muttered to herself in Lebanese. 

“Come,” Fenris said. He patted her shoulder on the way through the door, where Corff, the bartender, was waiting for them to sign the contract.

Corff had given them only a month to prepare for her debut. She was used to memorizing hundreds of pages of music for a show, but when Corff handed her the sheet music, Rana realized she couldn’t read it.

All these…she could only refer to them as pages upon pages of runes and neumes. She had a week to transcribe _Carmen’s_ Gypsy Song for the house musicians, along with several other pieces of her choosing. She fell back in her chair. _Now_ what?

Fenris and Varric were too busy talking to notice her, or that the music was in an unknown language. She pointed to the sheet music.

“How?” she asked Fenris in Tevene. “Can you understand the words? _I_ cannot.”

He stared at the pages, jaw agape. Embarrassment and frustration were clear on his face. The brands shimmered in the candlelight in reaction to his emotion, he stiffened in his chair, and then it struck her: Fenris was a freedman. If this place was anything like Earth, slaves never learned how to read. 

“Speak for me. Please.” If only she knew the words, she would’ve said so much more. _‘There’s no shame in not knowing how to read. We could learn together, it’ll be fun. Please don’t think less of yourself,’_ she thought.

“Varric?” she asked sweetly. “I no,” she pointed to the page and shook her head. She prayed the dwarf understood.

Varric’s eyes flicked from her to Fenris before the dwarf disappeared into his room. When he returned with a stack of alphabet primers and ledgers, Fenris caved onto the table, head in his hands. Seemed his little ‘secret’ wasn’t so secret, after all.

Her Tevene wasn’t good enough to translate _Carmen_ herself. Fenris couldn’t. They were at yet another communication impasse when salvation arrived in a rather unexpected form: Sebastian Vael.

She’d completely forgotten it was Saturday. Sebastian and Fenris had a standing counseling appointment on Saturday afternoons. They both looked up to find Sebastian in the doorway, who helped himself to a seat.

“What’s that,” Sebastian asked. She understood that, at least.

Fenris explained their project, going into what she assumed was far more detail than necessary. ‘Save me, Sebastian, she’s driving me mad,’ sort of thing. His tone certainly sounded like it. She rolled her eyes. He kept going _on_ and _on._

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” she muttered. “ _Pourquoi moi?_ ” ‘My God,’ she’d said. ‘Why me?’

“ _Vas-tu bien?_ ” ‘Are you alright?’ She froze. Sebastian?

“Rana? _Tu sembles inquiète._ ” ‘You seem worried.’

“ _Tu me comprends?_ ” ‘You understand me?’

Sebastian nodded. “I do.” She launched herself from her chair and threw her arms around his neck.

“ _What are you doing,_ ” Fenris cried in Tevene. “Rana!”

All the words she’d kept in those two weeks, she unleashed in a torrent of syllables fast enough to impress even Fenris. How much she missed her family, how she wanted to go home, but Fenris had been so kind to help her. It would hurt his feelings to tell him. She explained their objective, what she planned to do. She turned her sheet of text towards Sebastian.

“I don’t know how to translate,” she said in French-Orlesian, “could you help?”

“I’ll most certainly try,” Sebastian replied. She grinned and slid into the seat next to him. The hours passed quickly.

“I’m enjoying translating this,” Sebastian said. “What other songs do ye have?”

Rana sang other pieces for them to determine which would be most appropriate for the Hanged Man. They both knew the Hanged Man was the easiest place to start, but once the word got out, she would be in demand at more desirable venues. It was clear out of the two, Fenris loved music more than Sebastian. He couldn’t understand the Italian opera or the Arabic of her favorite Fairuz songs, but he understood the emotions. His eyes expressed more feelings than she thought him capable of.

She’d wondered if he ever felt anything other than vague annoyance, for how stoically he presented himself. She originally theorized all the emotion got leeched out of him with his hair color. Yet there he was, lounging in his favorite armchair with contentment in his soft, jade eyes and a smile. The first smile she ever saw him make, for the entire week she’d been there. It was such a small thing—insignificant for most people—yet all the more precious from one so guarded as he was. She wanted to see it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Ave/Avete: hello  
> Quid est, quod carmen? Pulchra est: What is it, that song? It's beautiful  
> 
> 
> Whenever I read the title, I start singing it to the melody of 'How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria' from 'Sound of Music.' Do you? 
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> PS: Song Rana sang in the kitchen: “Chi il bel sogno,” from ‘La Rondine,’ by G. Puccini  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4nXSJW8NIE 
> 
> So, this is one of my most favorite arias to sing, and one of my most favorite recordings of it. Pay attention to 1:05, how the high notes just float like silk on the wind. In this aria, the character Magda sings about a young girl who decides to follow her heart and marry the boy she loves instead of the king with all of his riches.
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> The Audition Piece: “Gypsy Song,” from ‘Carmen.’ (Singing starts 1:06)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUPkeHeJZtE 
> 
> This piece is so fun and has a tendency to get in your head. I danced flamenco to this for a production of ‘Carmen’ I was in; skirt swishing is a must!


	3. Making Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing. :) 
> 
> Check out the notes below for a Youtube link to Rana's Song!

Balancing his professional and personal life was more challenging than Fenris anticipated. He had known, going into it, that Rana accepting the singing position at the Hanged Man would be time-consuming. They had to learn entire skillsets in a matter of days, and had little time for anything else. In favor of Rana’s rehearsals and Common lessons, Fenris had turned down so many mercenary contracts from Marian that even card games at Varric’s was becoming a strained event.

That Monday, Marian regarded him with her typical annoyance. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she crowed from her place next to the Abomination. “Haven’t seen ye in ages,” she said.

For the first time in so many years, Fenris did not feel the familiar pang of jealousy in his stomach. He slid onto a stone seat. “It’s been a week,” he replied. “Do you have any work lined up soon? I’d like to join you—” Since Marian was the Champion of Kirkwall, she was a hero of the city-state, very busy with her numerous duties of protecting the citizens. As the city was a veritable den of iniquity, she always had extra contracts. He noticed Marian’s eyes hardening when Rana sat next to him.

“Bored with her already?” Marian asked. “I can see why.”

He bit back the retort and unstuck the greasy wine bottle from the table. “I’m saying if there are any contracts you’re turning away, I’ll take them,” Fenris said.

“Meet me at the eastern gates, come dawn,” Marian said. “We’re hunting an assassin on Sundermount.”

He gave her a half-smile as a thank you. She nodded back. For the first time in three years, her smile didn’t affect him, which surprised Fenris.

The next day, Fenris steeled himself for a slew of bad luck. Working with Hawke was always fraught with dangers, and this outing was no exception. The giant spider-monster, or the varterral, as Merrill the Witch had called it, was as tall as his atrium and just as wide, with a smell that could choke a dragon. It could have been his overly sensitive nose, but it was almost unbearable. He should’ve taken Sebastian up on archery lessons, if just for this one scenario.

“Left flank,” Hawke shrieked.

He dodged a talon and nearly slipped. Fenris expended much energy dodging and avoiding the monster’s enormous legs. He hadn’t paced himself, properly. By the fourth leg, he could feel himself tiring, but brought his hammer down with all his strength. Marian drew her bow, her arrow striking the varterral’s underbelly. The beast collapsed, sizzling in the poison it had spewed. Fenris approached to do the only merciful thing he could, hastening to end the beast.

He felt the brands tugged uncomfortably against his skin, burning like ice water. Someone was about to cast a spell, the brands always reacted like this to the energy of magic. A charge filled the air and made his hair stand on end. _Throom!_ A bolt of lightning hit the beast in the skull, and the varterral went limp. Fenris let out the breath he’d been holding and leaned against his hammer.

“Who’s in need of healing,” the Abomination asked. His voice bounced off the enormous cave walls, drilling holes into Fenris’s ears.

Fenris frowned, checking himself for injuries. Fire coursed under his skin. The brands would be murder, on the way home. He leaned against a rock and uncorked the pain tincture bottle.

The man they sought crept out of the shadows. A few words floated over from Marian’s conversation with the assassin. After a short time, Marian let the assassin go. Fenris was in too much pain to truly care.

They found the camp where the man who’d hired them was staying. He was angered to learn Hawke let the assassin go. So angered, in fact, he drew his blade to kill her. Four men circled Fenris. They wore thin gambesons, typical of assassin types. Fenris drew his long dagger from his belt.

An incoming blade missed him by inches. A stab to the neck, his first victim fell down in a fountain of blood. Parry, parry, strike to the gut. He spun out and hit his next assailant to the face with the hammer. Every strike sent fire up his arms, and it took his breath away, “Hold out for just a bit more, Fenris,” he whispered to himself. “Come on…”

Between the four of them—Marian, Varric, Fenris and the Abomination—they downed the posse of men. Fenris was spent. He slid down a boulder, his dagger and warhammer clanging to the ground.

“Who needs healing,” the Abomination asked, and half of the party raised their hands.

He heard boots shuffle in the dirt. “Elf?” Varric asked. “Where’s your injury kit? You don’t look good.”

Fenris’s face hurt too much to speak. He was disoriented, his head pounded in time with his heartbeat.

“I don’t see any injuries,” the Abomination said, pawing at him. Fenris clenched his teeth, to stop from screaming. “I’ve never seen the brands like this. They’re out of control.”

“Can you do anything?”

With the Abomination’s touch, his magic seared into the brands, and Fenris screamed. “Anything I could do would only make it worse,” the Abomination said. “Fenris? Open your eyes for me. Did you take pain tinctures?”

“Yes,” he whispered, arching his back.

The Abomination cursed, “I don’t have what I need with me. Help me get him up.” A hand seized Fenris’s shoulder; he nearly fainted. “The pain’s too great, I have to sedate him.”

How would he get home, if they sedated him? He didn’t want to stay out here, in the middle of nowhere. Rana needed him. He needed to get to Kirkwall. He tried telling the Abomination that, but the brands on his throat and chin made speaking almost impossible. The last thing Fenris remembered was the energy draining from him feet first.

He awoke to wet hair flopping into his face, so he assumed someone had washed it. He didn’t remember. They bundled him into a towel, into his old red housecoat, and helped him stumble up the stairs. They lowered him onto the bed, and the world faded to a comforting black.

The Abomination ordered bed rest for a week until the pain calmed down. Much of the time was punctuated by his friends’ visits. Varric came by every day, as did Sebastian. Marian glared at Rana at every opportunity and fussed over Fenris in a fashion that would have made him blush a month ago. Now it merely made his eyes roll. Rana’s, too.

“…What did Anders tell ye? Will ye be alright? He don’t tell me nothin’,” Marian said. Fenris sincerely doubted that.

“No contracts until further notice,” he replied.

She leaned back, jaw agape. “But—What’ll ye do for money?”

“I don’t know. I-I’m forbidden from the only thing I’m good at, my work. Marian, I’m at a loss.”

“Stop it!” Marian exclaimed. “It’s not permanent, yeah? Ye’ll be loppin’ heads off slavers in no time.”

“And if it _is_ permanent?”

“Ye might fancy civilian life…or go mad from boredom. Ye’ll find out in a fortnight.” He fell back onto the pillows with a groan. “I’ll sort something out, Fen. Ye won’t starve.”

“Thank you,” he said. She patted his leg through the blanket.

Fenris must’ve fallen asleep, although he didn’t remember it. The aches and burning joints made it so he didn’t feel as though he’d slept at all. Sleeping propped up on a mountain of pillows and cushions did not bring him comfort, but Rana did. She did not leave his side. Between the comforting food she prepared, the tinctures and teas the Abomination prescribed, and the sweet songs she sang, he was sitting up and feeling better in a few days.

“Sleep well?” There was Sebastian, pleased to see his good friend awake and on the mend. He was seated at the table, winding string around a board fitted with pegs for his new bowstring. Fenris shuffled to his armchair, noticing Sebastian seemed preoccupied.

“You’re quiet,” Fenris said. “Are you well?”

“Aye. Fine.”

“Sebastian. Is it Starkhaven? What’s happened?”

“I’ve told ye of me cousin, Goran. Lady Harimann put him on the throne, but I’ve had word his advisors are running the city to the ground. Spineless lump.” Sebastian ran his pocket knife down a groove in the wood, wiping the threads on a ball of wax before starting again. “…I’d thought I’d washed me hands of politics, but what’s to stop Goran from coming for me? I’m the rightful heir to the throne; he wants me dead.”

“Does Goran know where you are? You’d be protected by the Chantry, yes?” Fenris asked.

Sebastian shrugged. He cut the strings and ran them on the wax, “As long as I live, I’ll be a threat to Goran. I cannae bring danger knowingly onto the Sisters here. Perhaps, if I transferred to Orlais or Nevarra…” He wound the two sets of string around a peg and began twisting.

“They killed your family to put Goran on the throne. Can you live with yourself, knowing that your people are suffering?” Fenris asked.

His friend looked up from the bowstring he was making. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed; his teeth clenched. “Fenris, ye ken I avenged me family. Ye were there, so why would ye say that?”

“I know. Yes, that’s true. Apologies. But would you not serve your people better by preventing Starkhaven’s ruin?”

They were silent, for how long, Fenris couldn’t tell. Sebastian’s eyes were glassy, “I miss them. I yearn for me kin. I cannae help but think sometimes, I wish I’d died with them.”

Fenris pushed his chair away from the table. “Forgive me, I was too forward.” Again, Sebastian said nothing. It made Fenris’s heart sink a little.

“If I decide to take action, will ye be there to help?”

“What? I-I don’t know the first thing about ruling.”

“Ye can lead the army,” Sebastian replied.

“I can barely make Rana listen to me, and you want me to lead an _army_? _Are you joking?_ ”

“No! I’ve seen ye fight; ye’re like poetry. Ye’re an honorable man, loyal and fair. Who else would I want leading the siege?”

“Someone with military experience,” Fenris said.

“There’s no one else I’d want at me side, Fen. Ye’re like me brother, I trust ye. Will ye think on it, at least? It’d mean the world to me.”

The two men stared at each other. Analyzing, parsing, weighing their options. Sebastian would never leave the Chantry, anyway. He had been talking about this for six years. The moons would fall into the sea before he’d actually do it.

“Fine,” Fenris replied. The priest smiled as he twisted his waxed string around a peg, quite relieved.

“…I see how well Rana’s tending ye, despite the broken wrist. Surpassed me expectations,” Sebastian said after a silence. There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Quite the lass. Ye fancy her?”

“No,” was the automatic reply. Perhaps too automatic and unconvincing, by the amusement on his friend’s face.

“Fenris, there’s no shame in it; ye’re not made of stone—”

“I have Danarius hunting me with slavers and blood mages; I can’t afford attachments. I should’ve left Kirkwall weeks ago, but I feel responsible for Rana; she’s still healing.”

Sebastian sighed. “It’s been two weeks, but I actually see a change in ye, and it’s a good one. Ye seem much happier.”

“Before this, I was carting her to rehearsals and literacy lessons all week—”

“It’s twice a week, and if they’re that imposing to ye, _I’ll_ take her.” He returned to his bowstring. “Acting all vexed when a blind man can see ye enjoy her company. Fool of an elf.” Sebastian heaved a sigh. “Anyway, I thought ye were sending her on her way. The fortnight is almost up; she’s well enough to leave.”

“I—” His face went hot. “I can’t turn her out without any Common, it’s too dangerous. She stays until she has enough to be on her own.”

He gave Sebastian his best ‘end of discussion’ look and retreated to his bed to try and sleep. Sebastian’s words haunted him, brought up the truth he dreaded: Rana _was_ becoming a dangerous attachment, if Danarius was truly behind her being there. Leverage to force his hand, make him go back to Minrathous. And yet, despite of all this, Fenris still found ways to justify her stay. He _wanted_ her to stay, looked forward to spending time with her, and that realization was simultaneously surprising and frightening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched a Youtube video on how to make your own bowstring when writing this chapter because I wanted Sebastian to properly make a bowstring. I put it on slow motion 12+ times... If I ever get out of fanfic, I think I'll become a bowstring maker. :) 
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> Rana’s Song (she sings this often): “Baldati Ghabaton Jamila”  
> (I can't find this piece on Spotify. Sorry!)   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7O-u0c-D_s 
> 
> This piece is just so gentle and elegant, sung by the legendary Fairuz. How she sculpts and paints the phrases with a different color/emotion is so masterful. Even though the piece has repeating verses, each time is slightly different, with a different inflection to the words.  
> Since Rana sings it all the time, I like to think Fenris learned it by ear and plays it on his lute. Hear something enough times, and you can literally sing it in your sleep! This is also the piece she’d sing to him when he doesn’t feel well and the brands give him a misery.


	4. And Still No Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia, for beta-ing! And thank you to all who've left kudos; you rock! :)
> 
> Check out the notes below for a Youtube link to the song featured in this chapter! Spotify playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5
> 
> I'm painting my way through the characters of S&S. Scroll down to see Rana at the end of the chapter. Artwork done by me :)

It had been a good day, that day. Fenris’s pain had greatly lessened, thanks, in no small part, to Rana’s excellent care. For a change of scenery Fenris wanted to sit in the courtyard garden. It surprised him—he’d expected wilting and yellow leaves, but in the week or two that he’d been ill, the garden flourished. He sighed, watching Rana tend to the herbs, humming a sweet, lilting melody. How had he not realized how serene this place was? He’d lived in the mansion for six years: did he truly not notice? But the garden had not ever looked so lush and beautiful. 

Fenris turned to Rana. “I want to thank you,” he said softly. “You help me become well.” He smiled, remembering her own words she’d said the night of the attack. “You are good. I give you thanks.”

She wiped her hands on her skirt and reached over, gently brushing the hair from his face. “You help me, also. _You_ are good.” Yet another moment they both wished they could say what they felt. But despite the language barrier, they knew what each other meant. 

A week had passed without word from Sebastian. Fenris honestly thought nothing would come of their talk of Starkhaven. However, later that evening, Sebastian came for a visit. He said his hellos and went straight for the library.

“Hawke and I had a falling out,” Sebastian said. “I cannae stand her. She said revolting things.” His voice was tight, almost stilted.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris replied. “Hawke can have the tact of a warhammer to the face.” His friend stared at the floor. “May I ask what happened?”

“I accompanied her to Bartrand’s estate the other day. Did ye ken it’s haunted? With ghost golems a-and that red lyrium shite? Bartrand had some. And she let Varric keep it,” Sebastian shouted, turning to face him.

Fenris’s jaw dropped, “ _What?_ ”

The priest nodded, “She kens what happened to Bartrand; the poor man went mad from the red lyrium. I swear Varric wasnae in his right mind. He completely changed by just touching the lyrium. ‘Think of what we could do with this,’ he said. As though his brother, Bartrand’s, horrible fate wasnae warning enough!”

“A touch, and everything went wrong? And Hawke allowed this?” Fenris asked.

“Varric quarreled with Hawke over it. Said he’d spent six years of his life searching, and he needed it. _Needed_ it, like a man needs air.”

This was far worse than anything Fenris had imagined. He remembered when they’d found Bartrand, three years ago, cowering in his study at his estate. Bartrand’s mangled victims were strewn about, the smell of rotting flesh had turned Fenris’s stomach.

Fenris imagined Varric holding the bloody knife instead of Bartrand, and he felt sick. “Can’t Hawke make him reconsider?” he asked.

“I tried to make them see reason. They both turned on me. Hawke, especially.” Sebastian started pacing. “I’ve never heard such words out of a woman’s mouth. The _cussing_ : whatever did ye ever see in that shrew? I’ll show her, Fenris. Mark me words; no one speaks to me that way. She’s insulted me honor.”

Fenris heaved a sigh. “I still don’t understand why Hawke allowed him to keep something so dangerous as red lyrium. I’m sorry she spoke to you that way. Hawke has changed so much, I hardly even know her, myself.”

“We cannae ignore this, I’m reporting it to the Templars; it’s out of our hands.” Sebastian stopped in front of the bookcase. “By the way, I reached out to Ser Harimann, remember him? He’s supporting me claim to the throne.”

Fenris’s eyes widened, “Congratulations are in order, then, Your Royal Highness. Wait. The Harimanns? The people who murdered your entire family would just… _help_ you, out of the goodness of their hearts?”

Sebastian sighed. “Lady Harimann was the one that had me family murdered and put Goran on the throne. She acted on her own accord. She fell by me own hand, but I spared the rest of the family, because they didnae ken her plans. They owe me.”

“But you trust them? What was their price?”

“Trust? No. But if anyone can help me claim the throne, it’s Ruxton Harimann.”

“What was his price?” he asked again.

A ghost of a grimace flitted across Sebastian’s face. He bit his lip, “His daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“Are you opposed, or...?”

“I havenae taken me final vows as a Chantry brother, that’s not the problem, it’s—” the pacing started again. “I’m the third son. I was raised and tutored in the royal court, but there’s so much I dinnae ken.” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “There’s so much I dinnae ken.”

“Sebastian. Statesmanship can be taught. Warfare? Diplomacy? All skills you can study while you work to secure the throne. You’ll be prepared, when the time comes.”

They were silent for a while before Sebastian spoke again, “If I’m risking life and limb to get me throne back, ye better keep yer end of the bargain.”

“What? Sebastian, I honestly didn’t think you’d go through with this.”

“I’ve thought about this, Fen. I’ve prayed constantly and truly ken this is me duty. I cannae let me people suffer at the hands of Goran. And ye’re a man of yer word, aye? Ye promised.”

“I promised to _consider_ it, not— _Venhedis_ , _you said you never wanted to leave the Chantry_.”

“I _dinnae,_ but me people need me. Said so yerself.”

“I—” the brands itched, flickering ever so slightly. Fenris remembered a conversation he had with Rana while he was bedridden. “I have nothing,” he’d said. “Battle is all I know.”

She had smiled so gently, “Not true. You have much inside, but you do not see it all.”

Fenris took a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll do it. You’re like a brother to me, Sebastian. I’d do anything for you.”

Sebastian blinked at him, “Y-Ye will? Truly?” He smiled, “Ye slaughter me at chess; ye’ll be a natural at strategies. Speaking of strategies: we need to talk about Rana. It’s been two weeks since the attack, and I ken we’ve not gotten much more information from her.”

“Last we tried asking after her family, she broke down in tears.”

“Has she said anything to ye since?”

Fenris shook his head. “With the language barrier, even if she tried, I couldn’t understand.” He sighed. “Let’s try again while you’re here. I’ll go get her.”

* * *

Rana sat across from the men at the library table. When Fenris fetched her from the garden, she should’ve known it was for something serious. He wore a troubled look on his face, the same one he wore now as Sebastian launched into his question.

“Rana, now that ye’ve healed more so, I thought I’d ask if ye remember anything about how ye came to be here?” Sebastian asked in French.

She shrugged. “I think about it all the time, and it still doesn’t make sense. I-I don’t know how I got here. I remember falling down the stairs, hitting my head on a metal pipe. Then Fenris was picking me up off the ground.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Sebastian, what happened to me? How will I get back to my family?”

There was sadness in Sebastian’s pale blue eyes. “We’re so sorry. We want to help ye, but we dinnae ken how. It’s a mystery, at the moment.”

She sighed. She should’ve expected those words: if she didn’t know how she arrived, how could she expect others to know the way home? The two men quietly discussed something in Common. Sebastian found a map in the bookshelf and turned it towards her.

“Can ye show us where ye were last? Perhaps we can send ye home.”

Her jaw dropped. The parchment before her was unlike anything she’d ever seen in geography class. ‘Kirkwall.’ ‘Starkhaven.’ So many other names she couldn’t recognize. She traced her finger up the coastline, mind racing. She realized she couldn’t be on Earth, or, at least, anywhere she recognized. She _knew_ that, but to see it right in front of her made her shudder. How could she tell them the truth? How could she explain her modern world to two superstitious men, one of which was a highly skilled swordsman?

She plunged head first into the truth and prayed she wouldn’t regret it. “I’m from a land called Lebanon. It’s…not on this map.” She gestured vaguely to the table north of Tevinter. “I travel abroad to sing.”

“Fenris says the ports in Tevinter trade with many Northern lands, perhaps a ship sailing from there will get ye home.” Oh, they had no idea. She felt guilty for even mentioning it. 

“I doubt it, it’s… _very_ far away.” She paused. “I don’t know if this would help, but every night, I have this dream—nightmare, actually—that I’m in a sickbed.” She almost said ‘hospital.’ “And I hear my family around me, but I can’t see them. A-And I can’t move; the physicians do things to me and put a tube down my throat. I-It hurts so much, Sebastian, I—I try calling out, screaming for help, but I can’t talk. No one can hear me. Is it a memory of what happened to me? What does it mean?”

He was quiet. “Perhaps…yer inability to speak is yer lack of Common? And ye cannae see yer family in person, but ye hear them in yer thoughts.”

“But they’re so real. Too real,” she murmured.

“The Fade often mixes memory with fantasy, Rana. Many dreams are vivid, but that doesnae mean they’re real.”

“But every night?” He had no answer to that. Sebastian shifted in his seat, Fenris jostling his elbow and asking for translations.

A cold dread settled in her chest. “What if that’s real, and _this_ is the dream? One day I’ll wake up in that sickbed, and you’ll all be gone?”

Sebastian chuckled. “If _we’re_ the best ye can come up with for a dream, lass, I pity yer imagination. There are so many wondrous places in the world that eclipse Kirkwall. But in the meantime, ye’re safe here with us, and we truly care about ye, Rana. Ye may think Fen’s obsessed with swords and hunting slavers, but I ken he cares, too. There’s a change in him, Rana: it does me heart good to see it, and I ken it’s because of ye.”

He and Fenris discussed her revelation in hushed, quick Common. Rana thought she could sense some incredulity in their tones, but perhaps she was being too critical, perhaps not. She couldn’t tell. But when she looked at Fenris, she was met with what could only be described as the elven version of puppy eyes and a sincerely sympathetic expression. If only she had her camera, she would’ve cherished that picture.

* * *

The days since their ‘talk,’ Fenris noticed Rana’s mood changed. The songs that accompanied her everywhere died in her throat. She was listless, spending more and more time in her room until she never left it. The food Fenris left for her remained untouched. Much to his dismay, he could hear her sobbing on the other side of the wall well into each night.

He couldn’t leave her like this, she’d make herself sick. He told Sebastian so, when he hobbled to the Chantry and called on him. “I worry for her,” he said. “She’s heartbroken.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “She’s in a strange land, cannae speak the language, and has no way to go home. She’s lost everyone and everything she holds dear, Fen. ‘Tis natural she’d mourn.”

“There’s mourning and then there’s losing yourself. We both know what that’s like.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrow. “Aye, ye tend to enjoy reminding me.” His voice went sharp. “It’s the third time in a fortnight ye said it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“ _Ye ken well what ye’re about, Fenris of Kirkwall._ ” His accent thickened at his outburst. He sighed and muttered something in Starkhavener. “I dinnae need ye to remind me that they’re gone, that I’m weddin’ their damned murderers. I’ve a bleedin’ hole in me heart from it.”

“ _Well, so do I_ ,” Fenris shouted back. His meticulously cultivated Marcher accent fell away, his embarrassingly Tevinter accent coming through. He bit back a hiss when the brands burned and flickered through his shirt. “I-I lost my family twice: first from the brands, the second, I—” his skin felt slick from blood, screams rang in his ears. He’d killed the closest thing to family he had when he killed the Fog Warriors on Seheron, at Danarius’s orders. Fenris turned away. “At least you don’t have your family’s blood on your hands,” he muttered.

Sebastian heaved a sigh. “No. I’ll simply see faces of me dead family every time I bed Flora Feckin’ Harimann.” He paused. “We both lost kin, no point in arguing over who suffered the most for it. That’s not why ye came here.”

Fenris nodded. “…Rana needs a purpose, something to look forward to. The Hanged Man debut’s too far off to draw her interest.”

“I dinnae blame her: the place is wretched. She ought to be singing for the royal courts, not some rundown tavern.” He scoffed a laugh.

“Do you know of any royal courts in need of entertainment, then, Your Royal Highness?”

“Mm…The Harimanns are throwing a dinner party this Saturday, to introduce me to some nobles in Hightown. I can request Rana for entertainment.”

Sebastian’s words were well-intentioned, but Fenris realized he hadn’t been invited, despite being the commander of Sebastian’s future army. “I know she’d love that. Thank you. I think that will cheer her,” he replied, still annoyed.

“…I asked Ser Harimann to invite ye, Fen, but he, erm.” Sebastian winced. “He said an elf would scare off supporters, so early in the campaign. Discredit us.”

‘Discredit us.’ He frowned. “Well. At least you’re honest about it.”

“It’s not me wish, ye understand. I _want_ ye there, but—”

“But only after the nobles accept you, Sebastian, and have sworn their alliance,” Fenris finished for him. He sighed and pushed his chair away. “Let me know what the Harimanns say about Rana. If you’d excuse me, I have some…errands to run.”

He brushed past Sebastian and down the narrow corridor to the stairs. It wasn’t a complete lie—he _did_ need to go to market before Rana’s rehearsal—but Fenris mostly needed space to calm down. He preferred to deal with anger or anxiousness in private; flares and outbursts belonged to the old Fenris, the one fresh from Tevinter with his demons on his heels. The one that threw wine bottles at the wall and dreamed of nothing more than avenging himself.

 _‘But have you truly changed?’_ the voice in his head asked. _‘Don’t you want Danarius dead? Your hatred is a black growth inside you—they’d have to cut it out of you with a knife.’_ He hurried out into the square and plopped onto a secluded bench.

“I am more than this,” he reminded himself. His fingers dug into his tunic hem. “I will not let them sour me.” 

‘An elf would scare off supporters,’ Sebastian’s words came back to him. ‘I _want_ ye there, but—’

_‘You can’t write your own name, and yet you think you’ll lead an army. What does the foolish monkey know of the fine taste of ginger? You have nothing but your hatred and your chains. You’re no better than you were before you ran.’_

‘I asked Ser Harimann to invite ye, Fen, but an elf would scare off supporters. Discredit us.’

‘ _You can never be taken seriously_.’

‘I want ye there, but ye discredit us.’

His jaw creaked from clenching it so hard. “Stop it,” he muttered. “Get ahold of yourself.” He jumped to his feet and crossed the square to the market. He bought a small basket of strawberries and the first book at the bookstand he could find with a reasonable amount of illustrations and short sentences. There was a shady bench under an elm tree around the corner: he hung his feet over the bench arm and read aloud, popping strawberries in his mouth. And while he _really_ didn’t want to read about the hero-hunter Dane who traded places with a werewolf—whoever thought this was a tale suitable for children must have been dead drunk—he was grateful for the distraction.

Sebastian’s visit later that evening was awkward, but brought good tidings—the Harimanns were pleased to have Rana sing after dinner, and would pay her handsomely. The transformation on Rana’s face was worth every vexation—for the first time in several days, a spark of life lit in her eyes.

“ _Ai-je un accompagnateur, ou chante-je seule? Oh! Ma robe! J'ai besoin de vêtements de soirée,”_ she exclaimed. _“Quelle couleur aime Fenris? Noir? Bleu?_ ”

“What in the Void is she talking about?” Fenris asked Sebastian. His friend chuckled into his salad.

“She wants to ken whether or no she’ll have a bard to accompany her, realized that she needs an evening gown, and wants to ken what colors ye prefer. She thinks black or blue,” Sebastian replied. “What ought I tell her?”

Fenris first tried to wrap his head around ‘evening wear’ and how they’d ever procure such a vestment in four days. “I—black, I suppose? I don’t know about colors, why is she asking me?”

Sebastian shook his head and sighed. “Sweet Andraste, ye can be so dense, sometimes.”

He and Rana continued chattering in Orlesian, leaving Fenris to push his salad around his dish and mentally go through their wardrobes. He found an old doublet years ago, packed away with sprigs of lavender and rosemary; hopefully the herbs did their job and the moths didn’t get at it. Rana’s dress would be problematic, but perhaps if they bought trim or ribbons, they could use one she already owned. Put enough ribbons and bows on something, and it looked fancy. Or, at least, Fenris thought so, but his knowledge of any fashion trends could fill a thimble.

The rest of the week was a flurry of preparations, borne on a tempest of three languages that had Fenris’s head spinning. Choosing repertoire, rehearsing said repertoire, experimenting with hairstyles. Hacking at old clothes he found in the mansion to piece something together—only to go to the tailor’s, afterwards. Sebastian was his lifeline through it all, acting as the go-between when Rana gave up on Tevene and resorted to Orlesian. Fenris was pleased to see her whole demeanor change. He never realized how music could bring such joy to someone. He watched them, heads together as they discussed Maker knew what. He was so grateful Rana had someone to talk to and laugh with, someone who understood her.

He just wished it was him.

* * *

As Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke received many invitations to dinner parties and soirees around Hightown. She and Anders rarely attended them, but tonight was different. Sebastian was directly linked to her through their working together, and while they’d fallen out weeks ago, she was still obligated to show her support. If not for the sake of their old friendship, then for supporting any means necessary to get Prince Stick-In-The-Mud out of Kirkwall. And so Marian Hawke laced herself into her most respectable dress, forced Anders into a nice doublet, and dragged him to the Harimann estate. 

“Watch yer tongue,” she told him on the way. “There’ll be Templar supporters there. No politics, tonight, yeah? I don’t want no Templars at our door, come midnight.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “This isn’t my first party, Marian, I know what to do.”

“Mm, but ye rarely do it.” He glared at her.

“I can go home, you know. Leave you to suck up to that Templar rat of a prince—” She pushed him through the door, ending all further debate on the subject.

The Harimanns may have been a dysfunctional mess of a family, but they knew how to host a party. An elf with a platter of canapes greeted her as soon as she entered the spacious marble atrium. The porter announced her, and the room went still, bowing. Hawke enjoyed the attention. She made the rounds, her arm linked in Anders’s. By some miracle—or, more likely, her iron grip on his arm—she successfully kept him in line. He still hissed protests at her in hurried whispers, but she merely ignored his fuming. She was determined to enjoy herself, in spite of him. It was almost an enjoyable evening, until the porter made an announcement after dinner.

“Good even, me lords and ladies,” the porter said, “me Lord Harimann requests ye join him in the drawing room for the evening’s entertainment.”

Just what Marian wanted, entertainment.

She attempted to back away and leave early, citing a headache, but the current carried her in, and Marian’s eyes went directly to the stately, dark woman in front of the fireplace. It was Rana, hands clasped before her in the folds of her black silk skirt. Marian was astonished. " _She's_ the entertainment?" she asked Anders, leaning in. "This a joke? She's a foreigner, what does she know?"

Anders shushed her. "I don't know what she does," he replied, "but she surely is beautiful."

Marian's head snapped to him. "What? I've not heard ye use such words." She huffed. "I want to go."

"No, wait! I'm intrigued." Marian rolled her eyes in disbelief.

Sebastian approached the fireplace, parchment in hand. "Good evening. As most of her recital is in Orlesian, the Lady Rana asked me to translate a bit for those who aren't fluent." He began reading, stating that this was a new, different kind of music, never heard in Kirkwall before. "But, she sings this music from her heart to yers, and hopes ye enjoy it," he concluded. 

Marian groaned in disgust. "Maker, she's playin' every bloody angle," she whispered to Anders. "She's desperate. She'll be apologizing, next."

Marian didn't hear Sebastian's explanation of the first song. She couldn't stop staring at Rana, for Anders was right: she really was beautiful. Marian admired the cut of her sweeping gown, how her hair was coiffed, sleek and shining in the firelight. Her silver jewelry reflected and sparkled like mirrors. Marian shook her head. She'd never owned such finery, even as the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Hmph. Fenris never bought _me_ such beautiful things,” she muttered. “Neither did ye.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “That’s _exactly_ what you’d wear to slay dragons or hunt bandits.”

Rana nodded to the bard seated beside her, and the man strummed his lute. 

When Rana sang her first few notes, a collective gasp sounded throughout the room. Marian’s eyes widened. She’d heard her fair share of bards, but she’d never heard anyone sing with such grace and beauty. She scanned the room. Many others felt the same, by their surprised expressions. She startled when her eye caught Fenris leaning against the wall with a rare smile. He was always a handsome man—Marian had always thought so, from the first time she saw him—but he somehow transcended ‘handsome’ since last time she saw him. This wasn’t the man Marian knew. His angular face seemed softer and brighter. The normally hunched shoulders were relaxed, at peace, not at all like the elf ready to run at a moment’s notice. He never took his eyes off Rana for the entire recital. Sometimes, he mouthed the words she sang, closing his eyes during a moving melody. Totally rapt, he was.

Marian turned to Anders. She was surprised to see him actually enjoying himself. The applause was quite loud for what was, perhaps, two dozen people. Rana bowed, Fenris joining her from his place against the wall. The audience rushed them with compliments and requests for Rana’s services. Marian fell back in her seat. Fenris and Rana looked so handsome together. Happy in each other’s company—Rana looked positively radiant. Marian narrowed her eyes at them.

 _‘How could it be?’_ she asked herself. _‘How could a scared little mouse huddling in a corner now command the hearts of half the nobles in Kirkwall, let alone Fenris? ‘Tis unnatural; it’s like she bewitched him.’_ When Fenris placed his arm around Rana’s shoulder, Marian frowned and elbowed Anders in the rib.

“I’ve had enough,” she announced. “We’re leaving.”

* * *

I'm painting my way through the characters of Songstress and the Swordsman! Here's Rana. I based her dress off of the finery you see in Hightown, but put a Verdian twist with the pearls and pearl trim. In 15th century Italy, the sumptuary laws stated only unmarried women, brides, and newlyweds could wear pearls. And pearl trim could only be worn on their wedding day. Afterwards, the bridal jewelry was often sold off.

[](https://ibb.co/ys3ttNt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Fenris was born on Seheron and spent at least his early childhood there, I thought that he should have both Tevinter and Seheran sensibilities. I used the Indian proverb of 'what does a monkey know of the taste of ginger' as a nod to Fen's Seheran roots. 
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> PS: The Harimann’s Recital: “Je veux vivre,” from ‘Roméo et Juliette,’ (Romeo and Juliet) C. Gounod  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzDxgy6osu8
> 
> Planning a recital is a balancing act; it’s necessary to choose the pieces wisely. Too many big/difficult pieces can tire the voice, while an hour of only art songs can be a bit boring. Rana picked a varied program of arias, art songs, and popular pieces from around Kirkwall, to offer a little bit of everything.  
> This aria is a waltz, where Juliet is so excited to attend her first ball, she doesn’t want the night to end. ‘I want to live in this dream,’ she says. ‘Sweet flame, I keep you in my soul like a treasure!’


	5. Pandora's Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing! Thank you to all that have left kudos, bookmarked, and recommended this story: you are much appreciated. :)

Despite it being the height of summer, Fenris shivered in his seat at Varric's worn stone table. Once again, he neglected to bring a cushion for the stone chair that now drew heat from his bottom and drove him to distraction. He couldn't focus. Everything in that room seemed off. A static charged the air, and the very light in the room somehow seemed different. Shadows appeared sharper and more vivid. They were alive, almost. The hair on his neck stood on end.

Eyes burned holes in the side of his head; he turned, but there couldn't be anyone behind him. Varric and Rana were the only people sitting beside him at the table.

"Can we leave?" Rana asked. "I don't like it here."

He leaned towards her and whispered, "An hour, no more." An hour was far more than either of them wanted to spend in that horrid room, but they needed to continue their reading lesson.

And Varric, may he lose his eyes, had chosen the most insufferable book ever. A horridly _rhyming_ book, of nugs and slugs, and some absurd man called Klug.

Fenris shivered. The eyes on the side of his head were back. He bumped his leg into his chair in a nervous jitter. The longer the unnerving sensation lingered, the more the Klugs and slugs slithered into abstract dots and lines. The brands on his fingers itched and burned, their blue light dancing on the book's parchment. Frustrated, bored, he hated this. He kept checking over his shoulder for someone not there. 

Then, in an anger very unlike him, Varric snapped and demanded Fenris pay attention, "I cleared my damned schedule for this, the least you can do is pretend to care."

"I care," Fenris replied, affronted.

"Don't shit me, elf. I'm missing a very important Merchants Guild meeting, and—"

"What? You hate those. You never attend them!" In his disbelief, the Tevinter accent Fenris hid like a bad secret peeked through. He had never heard Varric swear in Dwarven. Let alone, so angry he pounded the table with his fist.

" _Atredum na satolva—_ " the dwarf ripped the book from Fenris's hands and hurled it across the room. The book hit a heavy metal chest before thudding against the floor. "Just copy your damned letters. I need a drink." Varric hopped off his chair and waddled out the door, towards the stairs to the common room.

Fenris fell back in his chair. "Have you ever?" he asked Rana. Her eyes were wide in disbelief, but she shrugged, not understanding.

He followed her line of sight to that metal chest in the corner of the room. Such a heavy, leaden container it was. Without a doubt, that was where Varric kept the red lyrium. It was almost like the shadows over the chest were growing darker. Of course, he knew shadows didn't turn into black clouds on their own accord, but this was red lyrium. It wasn’t a trick of the candle.

They jumped when the vase on an end table tipped itself over and shattered.

"C-Can we go? _Yalla_ ," Rana said in one breath. She tugged his sleeve. "Ya Fen, _yalla_."

The burn under his skin grew from an uncomfortable smolder to a fire. Knife-like pains stabbed his joints. The black cloud in the corner almost looked like a person. He grabbed his and Rana's satchel and herded her towards the door.

…The door that slammed itself shut.

"Stay behind me," he whispered. "Run when you can."

"Ya Fen—" She clutched his arm, eyes wide. The shadow was morphing into a horned person. A desire demon. He cursed.

Fenris drew his sword. If he struck now, he could kill it before it finished materializing, he had to. He couldn't take a desire demon alone with a helpless girl clinging to his arm. He rushed forward, taking the offensive. When he sliced to the left, the shade dodged to the right and swiped his arm. It felt like cold fog tickling his skin, but he knew better; blood welled under his vambrace. He twisted and caught the shade on the neck. A great howl, like wind in a tempest, bounced off the walls.

"Find Varric," he shouted, blocking the demon’s swiping talons. "Rana, find Varric!"

He saw Rana try and pry the door open. If she pulled any harder, the handle would fly off, but the door wouldn't budge.

She beat the wood and screamed until Fenris heard Varric on the other side of the door. "I can't open it," Varric cried. "I can't—"

Fenris drove his sword through the shadow and skewered it to the wall. The shadow dissipated with a slow, menacing hiss.

He heard the door slam open and dent the plaster. "What in the— _why are you stabbing my wall?_ " Varric stood in the doorway, glaring at him.

Fenris unstuck the blade, shoulders heaving. "Demon," he replied. The brands were agony. They burned his breath away. "D-Demon, from the red lyrium—agh." He doubled over the pommel of his sword.

Rana rushed across the room to him. "Come and sit," she said in Tevene, looping her arm around his waist. She fumbled with his belt pouch and dug out a pain tincture. "Just a little. To get home," she warned.

“Varric, why do you still have that lyrium,” Fenris hissed. He plopped into the chair and uncorked the bottle of tincture. Varric had no reply.

Fenris knew the walk home was at least two miles, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle stairs in this condition. If the demon returned, could he protect Rana if his hands were swelling into stiff claws? He itched at his palms. The bladed gauntlet tips tore his skin. It would take weeks to heal **.** A gentle hand closed around his. He would've given his right foot to feel it through the cold steel.

Varric appeared with an injury kit, face still prickling with annoyance, "Watch where you're bleeding. You're making a mess."

Varric Tethras was the _last_ person Fenris wanted near him. Fenris made that abundantly clear, but Rana wasn't having it. She said so in three languages and twice as many expletives. Trying to argue with her was hopeless. As they insisted on attending to him, Fenris really was grateful for their help. His heart was still racing from the fight. He hadn't fully caught his breath, and the post-combat pain hadn't fully set in, yet. The sensible part of him knew they were right to be concerned.

As soon as Varric tied the last bandage, they wanted to leave. Fenris’s joints complained, but he was not spending another second in that damned room. Rana slung the satchel on her shoulder and supported his back. They both thanked Varric and hobbled to the door. It took forever to get out of Lowtown. He was huffing by the time they'd reached the Hightown-Lowtown bridge. He arched his back just to breathe.

"We should stop," she said.

"I-I'm fine." He wasn't, but it was the thing to say, to get home quicker. He stumbled towards the bridge, fists clutching the hem of his tunic. He whispered to himself, "Come on. One step at a time." Were he any closer to the edge of the bridge, he would've sent them over the railing from his stumbling. She gripped his waist and looped his arm around her shoulder. He bit back a yelp.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The Hightown Market had never seemed so enormous, the sun too bright for its own good. Every sound reverberated through his body. He was shivering by the time they'd reached his front door. His legs gave out halfway across the atrium. Thank the Maker that Rana was there to catch him. She steered him to the library chaise and fetched clean blankets and a washbasin. The pain tinctures hardly helped, but they left him groggy enough to not care. As he sank deeper into an inevitable sleep, he heard Rana singing softly. The songs shimmered as they filtered through the pain. Eventually, they carried him into the blackness.

Because of the pain, the schedule for the following week ground to a halt. Rana acted as messenger, delivering the notes he wrote to his friends. He expected their visits; they always did so whenever they knew he wasn't well, but that wasn't what surprised him. In a manner quite like a tempest blowing from the sea, Marian Hawke burst into the library with Varric behind her.

"See what ye did," she shouted at Varric. "He can't walk, because of ye. Because of yer stupidity, Varric. Red lyrium is evil."

“Did you break into my house?” Fenris asked, trying to be heard over their shrieking. “What is this about?” They ignored him as they argued. He huffed, falling back on the cushions. He and Rana had slept through the knocking, no doubt. That was what came from befriending ex-smugglers and shady businessmen, he supposed. Break-ins.

“What if that had been the barmaid, Varric,” Marian exclaimed. “Or a merchant? Did ye truly want a murder inquest on yer hands? Ye’re lucky Fenris could protect himself.”

Varric threw up his hands. “I’ve been in that room night and day. Nothing happened.”

“Ye’re not resistant to it!” She crossed her arms. "I'm not losing another person I care about. I should've never let ye keep the stuff, in the first place. I barely recognize ye."

They went on for several minutes more. Fenris knew better than to interrupt. Marian had a way with Varric no one else did. If getting through to him required Fenris to look pitiful while lounging on the chaise, so be it. He smoothed the blanket and gave the most pathetic look he could muster. Marian eventually cajoled an apology out of Varric, not that it was entirely sincere. Fenris could see glimmers of his friend in there, behind the angry eyes, but that was all. He prayed it wasn't too late to reverse the red lyrium's poison. Varric was a good man and an even better friend.

Fenris was relieved when they finally left. The pain wasn’t the only thing troubling him: he didn’t understand why the brands were so reactive, why his stamina was diminishing so quickly. He was used to pain, but never like this.

* * *

Fenris spent the next few days 'camping' in the library. His muscles still strained with pain, but at the end of the week, he was able to take the stairs one at a time. He couldn't do more than take short walks, but Rana was relieved to see the progress. Physically, it was a step in the right direction. However, Fenris was the sort that had to keep busy. He became anxious if he wasn't doing anything constructive, and Rana knew she had to keep him distracted.

"We’re going out," she said. She expected his protests. The 'no, I can't protect you ' and the 'I don't want to go.' When left to his own devices, Fenris would make an excellent hermit. " _Yalla._ Let’s go for fun. You, too." She knew he would fall for it. Fenris would steal the stars from the night sky if she asked for a necklace.

They left the house slowly. She knew they couldn't go far, so she’d prepared one of her favorite dishes from home, and found a bench overlooking the harbor. And brought Fen's cushion, because if he complained one more time about stone seats, she’d scream.

They fell silent, watching the ships pass. “My city is not like this.” It stirred some interest.

“Where is your home?”

“Beirut, in Lebanon.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “You traveled far to come here.” 

“Mm.” He had no idea. There wasn’t a day that passed when she didn’t think of her family or missed home. It was a perpetual ache in her chest. She still didn’t understand that dream. How did get here? How does she get home? The question constantly twirled in her head.

She noticed him bite his lip. "Fen. What is it? Do you have pain?"

He sighed, "I promise to help Sebastian in Starkhaven."

"You’re a good warrior."

He scoffed, "You don't understand. I'm leaving to fight." Her pie fell into her lap.

He noticed her alarm, "Not now, in the spring."

"Don’t go," she said. “Don’t leave me.” She gripped her pie so hard, her fingers punched holes into the pastry. An idea came to her. “I can come with you.” He blinked at her. “When you go. I can come, too.”

“No, Ran. That’s no place for you.”

“I can sing there.” He seemed unconvinced. “Please?”

Silence. “What of the Hanged Man?”

"No Hanged Man for me.”

For the first time in a week, he smiled. With their limited vocabulary, Fenris shared what he'd heard about Starkhaven. How beautiful it was. His sentences were clumsy, but he wanted Rana to understand. She could understand small parts, but not all. Its granite boulevards leading up to the palace, the gilt paint on the cornices. He told her of the rose gardens and marble fountains at the port, the giant causeway to the city proper, with its views of the Minanter river. Fenris rested his hand on hers, and her heart squealed with joy.

After their picnic, Fenris wanted to walk a bit more. He wanted to find books on war tactics. Bookstores would never carry such topics, the only place would be the Chantry’s Scriptorium.

‘Scriptorium’ wasn’t what the Kirkwallers called it—that was a Tevene term for a Chantry’s ‘writing room.’ In one part, stood the writing desks, where the Sisters would copy manuscripts and leave them to dry. An army of shelves lined the walls, and stood at attention at the other end of the room. They contained all manners of books, organized by topic. Geography, agriculture, herbalism and botany, religion—she browsed the shelves while Fenris spoke with the Sister in charge. Since these books were for Sebastian, she had a feeling the Sisters would be cooperative. They might even let them borrow the books, if they were lucky.

"Rana," a voice called.

"You say something?" she asked Fenris, but he was browsing the shelf the Sister suggested.

"No, I didn’t,” Fenris said. He found two books he thought would be useful. _Concerning Military Matters_ was one title she could make out. He held them up, a hopeful look on his face like a boy begging his parents for two toys, instead of one. She shrugged, scanning the shelf. Some titles she could make out, but her Common vocabulary failed her.

"Rana," the voice said again.

"What? You call me."

His face went serious. "I was reading," he tapped a page. She was confused. "...Rana, are you well?"

She pulled the first book she found, to hide her shaking hands. "Fine," was the brusque reply. Instead of forming words, the letters in the title arranged themselves into jumbled nonsense **.**

"I can take you home to your mother;" the voice whispered, "read the book." Her hand went white knuckled around the book she was holding. "Read the book." A red book fell from the shelf above her head, landing beside her. She jumped, almost colliding into Fenris.

"Calm down, it's just a book." He scooped up his stack and limped to the Sister in charge, leaving her.

She clutched a volume to her chest. She knew it wasn’t Fenris that had called her. Someone had been speaking to her, and yet they were the only ones there, save the Sister in charge. The rest of the Sisters had already left for evening prayer.

"Rana, hurry," Fenris called.

She collected her things and made to leave. Her foot hit the book on the floor, and she froze. It looked ancient. Its cracked, faded leather cover might had been crimson long ago, but it merely looked bloody, now. She turned it, inspecting. Deep scratches in groups of three marred the back. The vines tooled into the corners were worn with age, silver leaf chipped and flecked. Whatever title it once bore had been rubbed off, leaving a nubby patch on the leather. Why would the Sisters allow a book to fall into such disrepair? Didn’t make sense. She frowned, setting it on the shelf before hurrying off.

The Sister gave them a cotton sack to carry their loans in, and while Fenris was excited to go home and read, Rana couldn't help but wonder how that battered book had pulled itself out of the tightly packed shelf and flung itself at her.

 _‘Don't be silly,’_ she told herself, ‘ _books can't talk. They can't move on their own. Fen reads aloud all the time.’_

But that voice wasn't Fenris's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Varric chose for their reading lesson is an actual book/codex entry from Dragon Age Origins, called: 'The Noladar Anthology of Dwarven Poetry.' It's the Dwarven version of "Green Eggs and Ham," and written by Paragon Seuss! You can read it on the Dragon Age Wiki page.
> 
> The war book Fenris mentioned, 'Concerning Military Matters,' is also a real book, called 'De Re Militari,' written in the 400s by a scholar called Vegetius. Its information is timeless: medieval kings, generals, officers, and their staff read the book for well over 1000 years, even after the introduction of gunpowder... Generals referenced it for strategy during the 1700 and 1800s!


	6. The Show Must Go On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing! 
> 
> Check the notes below for a Youtube link to the piece featured in this chapter! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Practicing was always a favorite part of Rana’s day.

It was _her_ time, and it made her soul smile. Fenris understood and mercifully left Rana alone while she worked on her music. She loved Fenris’s company, and enjoyed her time with him, even if she was quiet during most of it. Her Tevene had improved, but misunderstandings were still common. Whenever communicating was too difficult or frustrating, she’d go to the music room and study. She kept the door open. They had an unspoken agreement, she and Fenris: if his ears could hear her, then he didn't need eyes on her. And even if he didn't always say it, he truly enjoyed listening. Occasionally he'd shout song requests from upstairs.

That day she reviewed _I Puritani_ , an opera by Bellini, in order to keep her voice limber and flexible. The fast scales and sequences wove complex patterns in the air that reminded her of constellations or galaxies. Leaping, spiraling, turning. It was one of the many reasons she loved singing Bellini.

"Ran?" Fen called from the library. "Didn't we get fi—?"

She rolled her eyes. He always turned away at the end of a question. Rana crossed the atrium. "What is it?" she asked.

He sat at the library table, unpacking the sack of books they'd borrowed from the Chantry. "We have five books from the Chantry, yes?"

"Mhmm." She leaned against the doorframe.

"Then why are there six?"

"Six?" She crossed the room to him. There, on the table, were the five books they had picked out at the Chantry, and the sixth… was the red book that had fallen off the shelf.

"Did you take this one?" he asked, tapping its cover.

"No." Her stomach flipped.

"Are you certain?"

"I-I know it."

He fidgeted in his chair. "Perhaps Mother Francesca—"

"No, Fen. I put it back on the shelf."

He gulped. “I saw something like this,” he said, eyeing the book with a revulsion she’d seen reserved only for magisters, rats, and slavery. “Years ago.”

“What is it?”

He reached to the spare longsword resting on the other chair, unsheathing it. “Marian found a book like this. Evil.”

She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. “B-Books can’t be evil.”

He scoffed. “Mages use magic to bind evil to objects.” He gingerly got to his feet, prodding the book with his blade. 

“Nothing.” She let out the breath she was holding in. “It’s not evil.”

 _‘That doesn’t explain the voice from yesterday, though,’_ she thought to herself. She shifted her weight uncomfortably. 

He sheathed his blade. "It’s going back."

The more she looked at the book, the more uneasy she became. It settled over her like a fog. Could he be overreacting about this? The fog slithered through her mind, without her even realizing its presence.

“Read the book,” that voice from yesterday had said. “I can take you home.” 

_Home._ She longed for her family, she _needed_ them. The ache in her chest flared into a throb. Rana narrowed her eyes at the battered cover. It was so old and forlorn looking, that book. Surely no mage in their right mind would let a powerful spell book fall to such disrepair, and the holy Sisters at the Chantry? What would _they_ be doing with an evil book? Could this book really help her get home?

"Perhaps it’s good to use," Rana said without realizing.

Fenris blinked at her. "What are you saying? _It followed us home._ "

The silver leaf on the cover glinted so brightly in the candlelight, like a star. If books could cry, she could’ve sworn it had tears in its eyes. Her mother and sister appeared in her mind. Smiling, laughing. “Read it, ya Rana. Don’t you want to come home? We’re waiting for you.”

Fenris went to shove it into the sack. Before she could stop herself, her hand shot out and stopped him. They were both silent.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you today,” he said after the longest minute in her life, “but you’re frightening me.” He wrenched his hand back, stuffed the book in the bag, knotted it, and put the bag down. He slid past her for the door. "I need air."

“Ya Fen?” She spoke to an empty room. He’d left, probably to settle himself among the sorrel in the garden. He did that on occasion, when anxiety or bad memories got too much. She heaved a sigh and put the other books on the shelf. She didn't feel like singing anything else that day.

"Rana," a muffled voice said behind her. “They’re waiting for you, come home.” The sound had come from near the table, that voice, and that was when she understood where it was coming from. The red book in the sack. That book had been talking to her. The fog from before came back, whispering its promises of family and home. Rana shook her head to clear it.

She rushed from the room, locking the library door behind her.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's been injured?"

Fenris's gauntlets dug into the sticky, soft wood of the Hanged Man's bar. He and Rana had just walked all the way from Hightown for Rana's debut, arriving early so Isabela could help her prepare. Despite the venue, Rana was always excited to perform. Her excitement had been infectious; neither of them could sleep all night.

Then Norah, the barmaid’s, news brought their enthusiasm to a halt.

"We found Corff in the alley. Left for dead by some thugs." She poured a drink for a wobbling patron. "They’re not sure if he'll recover."

Fenris looked to the common room. The weekend crowd of patrons was thickening. "My sympathies. But it looks like business as usual. There’s an excellent audience for the show tonight."

Norah scoffed, "The show's budget got cut to pay the healer."

What?

"Yer girl. We can't afford her," at least the woman had the decency to look sympathetic. "Can't afford any of them musicians at the moment, let alone her. Healer's expensive." She sighed, "Corff left everything awry. It's been madness tryin' to both clean and run this place by meself."

Fenris could feel a knot tying itself in his stomach. Isabela had been fussing over Rana’s hair upstairs; he had only a moment to salvage Rana’s debut. He leaned across the bar, " _You cannot void the contract an hour before she goes on._ "

"When things settle, we'll talk, alright? But we can't afford her. I'm sorry." With that, the woman disappeared into the back office.

"Elf," a voice behind him said. It was Varric. The dwarf waddled in with an empty food tray.

"Varric, I didn’t know about Corff,” Fenris said. “Is he alright?”

"It happened last night. I’ve been helping Norah. We don’t know if he’ll make it."

Fenris sighed, "Rana’s upstairs getting ready—"

Varric interrupted, "Come on. May as well tell her before she gets all painted up."

They trudged across the room and up the stairs. Varric opened the door. Isabela had truly outdone herself dressing Rana's hair. At the sight of her, words flew from Fenris’s head in a rare case of speechlessness.

"You can stop undressing her with your eyes," Isabela said with a smirk.

 _That_ predictable comment snapped him to attention. Isabela was a walking innuendo. "Corff was attacked last night, and the show has been cancelled,” Fenris said. Rana looked somewhat disappointed. Somewhat. There was almost a tinge of relief on her face.

“It’s fine, Fen,” she replied. “I have many new, beautiful places to sing.” 

"Varric's been more himself since he got rid of the red lyrium," Isabela said from her place against the armoire. The dwarf in question had waddled off to assist Norah.

“That’s good news,” Fenris replied. “I still don’t trust him.”

“Holding a grudge is like holding a hot iron.” She sauntered to her table and uncorked a rum bottle. “Go on, you two. I’ve a meeting at half-past.” Sure. A ‘meeting’ with one or two sailors in her bed, no doubt.

He collected their things and escorted Rana to the door. They thanked Isabela for her help, pointedly ignored her demands to not let her hairdressing go to waste, and crossed the common room. It was pathetic. All those people, the empty platform in the corner. Rana sighed.

It was an overly humid summer evening. "Sebastian told me of a play," he said. "In the public gardens. Minstrels from Antiva." Her eyes glinted like onyx stars in the torchlight.

He gave a small bow. "Would you come with me, my lady?" She was silent, and he felt exceedingly stupid. "We cannot waste Isabela's hard work," he tacked on. "You look beautiful and—"

"Thank you." She blinked hard and curtseyed. "I am pleased to come, messere." She braved a smile, she really meant it.

He meant it, too, when he smiled back.

* * *

Rana and Fenris got home sometime past midnight. They should not have been walking home as exhausted as they were, but sleeping on Hightown benches was highly frowned upon by the City Guard. It was also highly suicidal, as Fenris reminded her on their way home. Thugs targeted fancy dress no matter the time of day.

The play had been a glittering whirlwind of colors amidst the torches and flowers. As the play was in Common, Fenris translated it to Tevene for her. She was proud she understood a portion of it. He added his own jokes during what he deemed were the boring parts. When he nearly choked on his hazelnuts—the far more delicious Kirkwaller version of popcorn—it caused her to aspirate her own nut, which made Fenris laugh all the more.

Their bantering almost caused them to be ushered out for disrupting others. After the play, they had visited a nearby restaurant with the best curry she'd ever tasted. It was the closest thing one could get to good curry outside Tevinter, Fenris told her. He might have hated the magic and the slavery, but he missed Tevinter food and the weather. Perhaps it had been the wine that made Fenris chattier than usual. Perhaps he wanted to cheer her up. Either way, she floated all the way to their door and into their vestibule.

If she had been even an iota less tired, or even less tipsy, she would have never kissed him on the cheek. She never would have found the courage for it in her right mind. "Thank you, Fen," she said, "for making me feel so happy today."

In the dark, she couldn't make out his expression well. Only his strange, beautiful green eyes, which reflected the moonlight filtering in from the atrium like a cat. She forced her gaze down away from his face. She could feel him. His shyness, his astonishment. But she didn't expect his tenderness. When he leaned in for what would be the perfect ending for the night, something clattered, somewhere in the atrium. Was that a voice?

No. She closed her eyes in anticipation and focused on Fenris. Spiraling through the ceiling and soaring towards the stars; yes, that was her. And this was their first kiss. She could hardly wait—

She had read cheesy romance novels where they described the partner’s lips as ‘soft’ or their breath ‘honeyed.’ Their hair was ‘silk’ as the girl ran her hands through it. Cringeworthy. He was none of those things, and still tasted of curry, to boot, but she didn’t care. Fenris was kissing her slowly and sweetly. She savored every sensation of it, and yet a thought came to her and refused to leave her in peace. What about going home? Wouldn’t this only bring about more complications later? 

There was definitely a voice in the atrium. Just like that, she plummeted back to their whitewashed vestibule. Her eyes popped open. "Fen, I hear someone."

He pulled away. "What?"

A door squeaked. Fenris brushed past her drawing his sword. He unsheathed his long dagger and thrust it into her hands. He sidestepped the light and hugged shadows against the wall. Rana followed close behind, but the atrium was empty.

Then the door to the left wing of the house swung lightly on its hinges.

Fenris whispered, "Run to the storage room. Go out the window. Get guardsmen. Understand?"

"I'm not leaving you." Rana felt foolish for even saying it, and knew she would just be in his way. But climbing through windows and searching for the guards in the dark seemed like a worse alternative. Fenris continued inspecting the house. Checking inside each room one by one felt like the worst game of jack-in-the-box.

"I can take you home, Rana," a voice hissed. The hair on her neck raised. B-Behind her. It was behind her. "Read the book."

“D-Do you hear that?” she asked. Fenris poked his head out of a closet.

“No.” They gasped. The clip-clop of hooves receded towards the library. 

As if on cue, a yearning took hold of her, a craving that would not leave her alone. She felt drawn to that book. She was compelled to obey. Nothing else mattered. She exited their current room of investigation and was halfway across the atrium before she realized it.

“Where are you going?” Fenris pulled her back. “I go first. I have the sword.”

As they approached the library, a distinct static charged the air, scraping against Rana’s skin like fingernails. She shivered. The feeling reminded her of the day demon appeared from the red lyrium.

The library door that she'd locked the day prior was open.

The sweat on Fenris's brow glistened in the light of his brands. He ducked into the library, signaling her to stay back. His eyes flicked from one empty corner to the other. There was nothing. 

A book fell from a shelf and thudded dully on the carpet. A flicker of pale silver light caught Rana’s eye. A feeling of dread washed over her. She knew what book it was. It was _the_ book. Her knees went weak. Fenris fumbled with a flint, lighting the taper on a nearby table. Despite her trepidation, she was compelled across the room to the book.

A hand closed on her wrist. Rana jumped. The urgency she had felt dissipated, clearing her head. Fenris sat on his haunches beside her, eyes reflecting the candlelight. His glare went from the book to her, and it made her tremble.

“You deceived me,” he said. “You put another book in that bag, didn’t you?”

“N-No.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Fen, _no—_ ”

He fetched the candle and went to the table, untying the sack. A copy of the _Adventures of the Black Fox_ stared up at them. “…You know what I loathe more than anything? Liars. Liars that _take me for a fool._ ”

The air burned out of her. She’d never actually seen Fenris angry, because he’d excuse himself to calm down in privacy. She knew enough from observing him with Varric and Hawke that he’d exploit any show of weakness on her part. She drew herself to her full height and set her jaw. 

“Why would lock I the room, if I take the book?” she asked. She would _not_ betray her fear, she promised herself. 

“Because you’re clever.”

“Because it frightens me,” Rana replied.

He scoffed. “You weren’t so ‘frightened’ yesterday.”

“I—”

He’d turn her in for witchcraft, if he knew about the voices. He was already becoming wary of her behavior. She could never mention the voices now. In Kirkwall, mages or even those suspected of magic were taken away and never heard from again. They were executed or hollowed into emotionless sub-humans the Chantry’s police treated like objects. The Tranquil, people called them. Rana called them Nightmares.

 _‘He’s waiting for you to answer,’_ her common sense reminded her.

She spoke in the calmest tone she could muster. “There’s something in the house. It leads us here. If it can throw a book, it can put one in a bag.”

His expression shifted into something sick from dread. He herded her towards the door, locking it behind them. He propped an armchair against the handle and led them both out into the night.

She hurried after him. Around the corner and down the stairs, out into the Chantry square. Her heart pounced as they ran up the Chantry steps, to the side door. She sighed in relief. Sebastian. He was bringing Sebastian into this. Her stomach cramped all while following him up the stairs, past the sleeping Sisters. “Please, let him be up,” she prayed, “we need his help.”

Sebastian had, thankfully, been up late reading. Fenris explained the situation in Common. Their friend nodded gravely, gathered a few things, and followed them home.

Rana had never witnessed a house blessing in person before. She and Fenris trailed after Sebastian from room to room—even the unused ones. The musty smell mixed with the cloying incense from the censer Sebastian swung. He chanted the blessing, a melody that meandered up and down. Rana couldn't make out all of the words, just snippets. 'Maker.' 'Bless.' 'House.' It wouldn't have been proper to ask for translations during the ritual. Fenris, despite not being religious, mumbled along. She bowed her head in respect. After the chanting, Sebastian took a piece of chalk from his belt pouch and wrote symbols above the door.

Rana stayed in the atrium while Sebastian blessed the library. Fenris had suggested it for her own safety, before unsheathing his sword and joining Sebastian. No ghost or spirit materialized. She blew out her air and fell against the wall. Whatever that thing had been, it was gone. They could stop worrying.

“You’re making a mistake,” someone whispered beside her. “You’ll regret this.”

She jumped. Sebastian and Fenris were at the library door, discussing something. She heard ‘Starkhaven,’ so she assumed a campaign meeting, but those weren’t the voices she’d just heard. She stared at the cotton bag dangling from Sebastian’s hand. It mumbled her name, all the way across the atrium while she and Fenris escorted their friend to the vestibule. It told her how much her family wanted her, missed her. Asked her why she was tormenting them by staying away. Even after Sebastian had left, she couldn’t get the voice’s words out of her head.

Dawn came. She laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Those words were still haunting her; she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother’s tearstained face, her sister asking where Rana had gone. Rana gripped the blanket closer around herself. Even if that book was out of the house, it still frightened her. But not as much as being found guilty of witchcraft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact I: When excavating in the Globe Theater of London, archaeologists found a layer of crushed hazelnut shells. Elizabethan theater patrons ate them like modern-day popcorn.
> 
> Fact II: In the Dragon Age novels, elven eyes are reflective, like a cat's. They can also see in the dark, which has no bearing on this plot whatsoever, but sounds like something of interest.
> 
> ‘I Puritani’ aria Rana rehearses: ‘Qui la voce’  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nbKCvmhEs8 
> 
> Sometimes Fen can tell what mood Rana is in by the pieces she sings and practices. While sometimes that’s true, many times she uses pieces for their technical challenges, like ‘Qui la voce.’ Marching in time with the music while singing the fast passages gets the rhythm inside the body and acts like a metronome. I use that trick all the time for my own practice sessions.


	7. More Than A Close Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for their guidance.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Contains elements of an abusive relationship in the second section.

Sebastian rechecked his supplies for the twelfth time. Holy water, a sackful of salt, an onyx pendant, and his dog-eared copy of the Chant: everything he needed for an exorcism.

Fenris had described the book's actions, how it was capable of moving on its own or even influencing others. It was out of the question to open it, let alone read it. Sebastian had to deal with the demon it harbored first. He could count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Fenris afraid, but last night Sebastian saw fear and concern in his eyes. "What if she's changed?" Fenris asked. "Sebastian. What if she's possessed?"

"If she's not herself by the time I'm done, take her to the Chantry. The Grand Cleric will help." And Sebastian meant what he said, that he and the Grand Cleric would help. Sebastian would do everything in his power to help his dear friend. If it meant exorcising a book in the middle of the night, so be it.

He took a deep breath and began, "Oh, Maker, Almighty Father, may Yer angels guide me hands and protect me from harm." He laid a line of salt around the book and uncorked the vial of holy water. The candle beside him flickered; there was no draft. Not even an open window.

His hand went to the onyx around his neck. "Come on, Seb," he muttered to himself, "dinnae let it frighten ye." He poured the holy water on a cloth and wiped down the book. "In the name of Andraste, I cast ye out, demon. Go back whence ye came, ye have no place here. Ye cannot remain. Begone."

A malicious air emanated from the red book, but he expected resistance. He repeated the process until the cover contracted and the pages puckered. The candle flame sputtered. He bit his lip and placed the holy medal on the book.

"I dissolve all bonds holding ye here, and cast ye into the Light. Ye cannae remain," he continued. Sebastian could barely see; the candle burned so low. He swore he saw shadows moving beyond the flame, circling the table towards him. The hairs on his arms stood on end. "'O Maker, hear me cry: guide me through the blackest nights.'" A clatter to his left sent him jumping.

"Sebastian," a voice whispered, "I can give you justice for your family."

His head whipped toward the sound. "Begone, demon!" he cried. "I banish ye, in the name of the Maker!"

"The throne could be yours, and without the Harimanns' help." A drunken warmth spread through Sebastian. Cotton stuffed his skull.

"I give you my word. Take the book," it whispered softly, comforting. “They won't hurt you again."

"'Steel me heart against the temptations of the wicked,'" Sebastian murmured. He felt so vacant. Half-asleep. Completing this exorcism felt nearly impossible. The prayers felt thorny on his tongue. The holy medal slid off the book.

"You’ll be the most powerful prince Starkhaven has ever known," the voice said. "Any woman of your choosing." Vaguely undressed women struck tableaux in his mind's eye, clutching artfully draped silk to their bosoms.

His trembling hand moved forward, grasping the book cover. The sodden leather squelched in his grip and startled him. Sebastian shook his head, blinking hard as he realized the prayers were proving futile. He shuddered, fighting the uncontrollable urge to lift the cover.

It took every bit of his strength, but he flung the book in the fireplace and stoked the fire. He threw some tinder on the reddening coals. "Damn ye," Sebastian muttered. "Come on. Burn."

The small fire he built licked around the book. High pitched moans and whines emanated from the hearth. Sebastian fell on his backside with a gasp. It was screaming. T-The book was actually screaming.

He sat there for what felt like hours, remaining still until the crying lessened to a whimper, and the whimper faded into silence. He grabbed the book with the fire tongs and clambered to his feet. The fire jumped and flared across the room, as though in protest. He immediately plunged the book into a bowl of holy water, and was astounded to see the book intact, albeit singed. Sebastian’s free hand shook as he parted the canvas. He wanted to drop it and get as far away as he could, but it was too late now. He shoved it in the salt sack and knotted it, shaking his head in disbelief of how powerful the book was, and bolted across the room to his bed.

"Sebastian?" Grand Cleric Elthina called from the hall. "What are you doing at this hour? Go to sleep, we have prayer service at dawn. You'll ruin your eyes with that candle."

Part of him wanted to rush out and confess what had just transpired. To beg forgiveness for his recklessness, and to ask her counsel. As the head of the Chantry, Elthina was like a mother to him, she'd guided him through the dark times of his life, and would know what to do. But the thought of admitting his impudence shamed him. Elthina would no doubt be furious, if he confessed. He spent too long debating with himself, and her candle receded down the hall, taking his courage with it. Still shaking, he drew his knees to his chest, praying his candle would last until dawn.

He saw a second shadow dancing on the wall, and no one there to cast it.

* * *

When the Knight Commander of the Templars sent an urgent letter requesting Marian Hawke's help in finding three runaway mages, Marian found herself in no position to refuse. She was already testing the Knight Commander's patience by openly associating with mages. More so by flaunting Anders as her lover. But to protect the mages, Anders and Merrill, she had to accept the Knight Commander's request. If only Anders saw it that way.

He argued with Marian all the way to the old prison once he found out her role in the matter. "How could you tell Emile to turn himself in?" he asked. "He was locked in that prison for twenty years. He had never felt the rain, or kissed a girl. He was worse off than an animal."

"He finally escaped. If he wasn't so bloody stupid, he'd be halfway to Antiva by now," she replied. "Not me fault he wasted his coin on piss-ale and cheap whores instead of passage out of Kirkwall."

That argument had been hours ago, and she could still feel the resentment bubbling inside him.

A headache pounded her head and made her ears ring. The Knight Commander had been droning on and on for what seemed like forever, and finally dismissed Marian with a wave of her hand, returning to her paperwork.

"At least this is over," Marian muttered. She turned for the door.

"Wait!" Anders exclaimed.

Marian froze mid-step. She watched, horrified, as Anders crossed the room to the Knight Commander's desk.

"That's it? Pay us and send us on our way? Not a single thought given to the fact that you Templars brought all of this upon yourselves? If you didn’t treat your charges like animals, none would try to escape!”

Of all the times for Anders to bring up politics…

The Knight Commander frowned. "Be very careful, mage," she spat the word at him. "Your Champion protects you only so far."

"You—" He leaned forward, as his eyes crackled.

Fear coiled in Marian's gut. If he snapped, if the spirit residing in him overtook him here, all the status in the world wouldn't save him. The Knight Commander's hand went for the hilt of the dagger in her belt. If Marian didn't take action, she’d never see Anders again.

"Enough, Anders," she said, stepping towards him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Silence." He shook her off and went to say more. "Anders,” she growled. “We leave now."

He clenched his jaw. She knew this wasn't the end. Anders would not let this rest.

The Knight Commander dismissed them a second time. Her secretary, a Tranquil mage named Elsa, greeted them in the antechamber. She neatly counted coins into a pouch. "Your sovereigns, Champion," Elsa said in a monotone. Her dead, blue eyes latched themselves onto her. "May the remainder of your day be pleasant."

No matter how many times she saw a Tranquil, it still turned Marian's stomach. Their blank faces and frigid, vacant stares—She could only imagine what it did to Anders, as she knew he could easily become one. She hurried out into the hall. Anders launched into his tirade.

"That boy," he hissed in her ear. "They'll kill him before the day is out, just you see. They’ll drag him to the dungeon and turn him Tranquil, once we leave. It'll be your fault, Marian."

She jabbed her elbow into his ribs and gave the Templars a smile while they unlocked the gate. "Not now," she said through the corner of her mouth. "They're listening."

"Let them. I've had it with these pigs."

She shoved him through the gate and across the courtyard to the ferry docks. He fumed all the way to Lowtown. By the time they got home, he was livid.

Orana, their servant girl, greeted them at the door of their house with a curtsey, "Good day, Mistress. Master."

Anders glared at her. "I told you to stop calling me 'Master.'" His voice deepened, as though two voices spoke simultaneously. Magic crackled under his skin. His eyes lightened from a warm amber to a glowing silvery blue. "Stop looking at me like that,” Anders hissed. “Stop cringing like I'm a monster, like I'll drain you for blood magic." His hand jerked into the air, palm open.

"Don't ye dare touch her!" Marian cried, stepping between them. She knew of Anders's strength under the parasite spirit that dwelled inside him. He could tear the head off of a bandit with his bare hands. She eyed the door. Five paces. If he got worse, she estimated, she and Orana could escape in five paces.

Anders's mouth curled into a sneer, "She looks on us with contempt. It shall not be tolerated." Marian stifled her apprehension. He’d lowered his hand, but she didn't trust it.

She called the spirit’s name. "Begone, Justice, leave Anders be," she said, voice strong and sharp. "Ye have no place here."

Just as she expected, he grabbed her studded vest and almost lifted her off her feet. Orana ran from the room, screaming. Anders shoved Marian against the wall and staggered after Orana. "You cannot hide from us, knife-eared rat." he shouted.

"Leave her," Marian screamed, chasing after him. He went to the guest room, overturning tables and knocking armoires to the floor. If Orana was clever, she would've run to the Chantry. She wouldn't be here, watching Justice and Anders wreak havoc.

Anders kept ranting, sometimes in Common, other times with guttural, demon-like noises far removed from the man she loved. Her heart pounding, she followed him from room to room, while he searched. There was no stopping him. Any effort was met with accusations of collaboration, anger, and outrage. Marian Hawke was not one who frightened easily. She'd slain dragons, ogres, and depraved monsters who leaped from legend. She’d dueled the Arishok, the Qunari's deadliest warrior, in single combat for the fate of Kirkwall. She’d faced blood mages and demons.

But she feared for her life, that day.

After searching the rooms, Anders turned on Marian. "Where is she?" he hissed. His voice turned dark and guttural as Justice’s tone came forth. "Speak, woman. Where does she hide?"

"I don't know," she said, drawing herself to her full height. "I'd not tell the likes of ye, anyway."

He lunged. As a last resort without her weapons, she jabbed him in the nose. As quickly as the light of Justice came, so did it recede. Anders folded into himself, holding his face. "Wha—" he groaned. "What happened?"

She rolled her eyes and shook out her fist. "Justice. Yer demon took control."

He froze. "…Last thing I remember, Orana opened the door, and I," he trailed off. "D-Did I—"

"She ran. We may never see her again."

Dismay clouded his features. "It's getting worse," he said, head in his hands. "I-I'm losing myself."

"Ye're not," she replied, on reflex. She'd said it so many times, it meant nothing, anymore. Not to her, not to him. She ought to have gone to comfort Anders, she supposed. He was her man, after all. He expected it of her and was already repeating himself because he thought she hadn't heard. She didn't budge an inch. This was the closest she’d come to fearing for her life around him. Something shifted inside her. Her mind went to how handsome and gentle Fenris was at the Harimann’s dinner party, and then she realized: she felt nothing for Anders.

"I _said_ I'm losing myself," he said, sharper. "Don't you care?"

Marian knew this trap. He did it every so often, tying her words in knots until everything could be used against her. So she did the only thing left: nothing. But it still damned her.

"Selfish bitch." He pushed past her, down the hall towards the cellar. She didn't need to follow to know where he was going. His clinic in the Undercity could be reached through the trap door. He might come back in the early morning.

She leaned against the wall, eyes closed, listening. The cellar door creaked open—despite his complains about that door, she refused to oil the hinges. He always insisted to know her whereabouts at all times. For her 'safety' and his peace of mind, he’d said, but Marian Hawke was no fool. The hinges were her way of keeping track of him. When he came, when he went. She kept her ears sharp.

Marian padded down the hall and listened. Silence. She sighed in relief. He was gone, for now, and she could breathe again. She groaned when she entered the guest room, assessing the damage Anders had dealt. It would only frighten poor Orana further to see the disarray. Marian folded the nightclothes, setting them in their drawers. The front of the armoire was damaged, but it was nothing the steward couldn't fix. It wasn't like they used this room anyway. It was just her and Anders in the house now. Her, Anders, and the servants. That made her heart sink, but she stiffened her upper lip and carried on.

A bit of blue in a corner caught her eye. She crossed the room and gasped. It was her mother's cherished robe, the embroidered silk ripped at the shoulder. It must have snagged on the drawer when Anders hurled it across the room. She remembered that robe fondly from her childhood. It was the only thing Mother had kept from her old life from Kirkwall, before she’d eloped with Father. 

For the first time in almost three years, Marian Alessa Hawke cried.

* * *

Sebastian contemplated not going to play cards at Fenris’s that night. He felt drained from his botched encounter with the book, but it was imperative to speak to Fenris and explain what had happened.

His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts, scattered. He pushed himself through it to meet his friends, rolling his eyes when his belt slid off the chair onto the floor.

The Chantry bells rang seven times. Shite, he was late. He grabbed his belt and rushed out the door.

* * *

Every Thursday, guardsman Donnic Hendyr went to his friend Fenris’s for cards. It was something he looked forward to. Not that his wife Aveline’s company wasn't enjoyable, but he needed a change of scenery and some time away from crime reports and signing warrants. He also needed a card partner that wasn't a sore loser like Aveline. He admired his wife as Guard Captain, but she held grudges. Ever since he’d won that game against her, she’d assigned him to Docks duty. He dreaded Docks duty, the extra paperwork, and now Fenris picking his brain for leadership advice.

That night, Fenris acted as dealer and scorekeeper for their games, He kept a notebook into which he laboriously copied every word Donnic said, much to Sebastian’s amusement. Sebastian sniggered into his wine glass, leaving poor Donnic to the mercy of Fenris’s insatiable line of questioning.

"'Never ask your troops to do anything you wouldn't do yourself.' Makes sense," Fenris said, rereading his notes. "Do I look for this when hiring mercenary captains?"

"Men are loyal to leaders that treat them well. Speak to the foot soldiers, in addition to their captains. The soldiers are less likely to lie." The round of cards dragged on and on since Fenris wrote slower than Chantry service on a holy day. It didn't help that he was left-handed, thus smearing the ink of every other word.

"I can write it," Sebastian offered. "So ye can focus on the game."

Fenris waved him away. "I learn better this way. How do you spell 'mercenary?'"

Donnic gave Sebastian a silent plea for help over his cards. "'M-E-R-C-E-N—'"

Fenris cocked his head at the page, crossing a word out. "That is quite different than what I thought." He started again, and Donnic rolled his eyes.

Sebastian slapped his cards down, nearly upsetting the inkpot. "Shite hand, I fold. Ye got any of that strawberry pie in the larder, Fen? I’m a wee bit peckish," he said, giving the elf a knowing look. "I'll bring the mugs in for washing."

Fenris returned the quill to the inkpot. "Alright," he replied. "Excuse us, Donnic." Fenris and the priest got up from the table and left in a noticeable hurry.

It wasn't normal, Donnic decided. Why did both of them need to go for pie? Fenris could’ve served dessert. And Sebastian had never offered to wash up on Thursday Card Night. Something was happening. Something important, if Fenris didn't feel comfortable telling him.

Fenris's voice drifted in from the atrium. Some sort of Tevene swear, Donnic thought. He heard a shush, and voices fading. Donnic stuck his head out the door, straining to hear. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t make out their words. ‘Book?’ ‘Cook?’ He couldn’t tell. His two friends rushed towards the kitchen, taking their strange tale with them.

A latch clicked. Donnic watched as a supposedly indisposed Rana peeked out of the music room door, snuck around the atrium corner, and down the hall. Intrigued, he quietly followed her to a storage room. He was startled to see her climb out the window.

His first impulse was to go to the kitchen and tell Fenris what he’d seen, but he decided against it. If he left early, he could possibly find the reason behind her unusual exit. Fenris and Sebastian had already brought pie to the dining room, by the time he’d returned.

“No Rana?” Donnic asked, sliding into his seat. “I thought she liked strawberry pie.”

Fenris passed the plates. “She’s resting. Headache.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Made a delicious pie, though.”

Even better than the baker’s, it was. Fenris wiped his sticky hands on his napkin and shuffled the cards. There was no leaving during a hand of diamondback and strawberry pie. And it wasn’t as though Rana knew the city streets well enough to get into any real trouble, Donnic thought…

A few hands more couldn’t hurt, Donnic said to himself. A few hands, and he’d go try to find the girl.

* * *

As a powerful demon, Arzu abhorred her prison, the book she’d been bound to centuries ago. The priest’s salt smothered her, locked inside the chest in his Chantry cell. But not for long.

Arzu waited patiently in the dark. She willed Rana’s legs to walk quickly, so she could arrive sooner. There were quick, light footsteps on the stairs. Muttering in that strange language Arzu knew to be Rana’s. It was not of their world, that tongue, but it was precisely why Arzu desired her. Her potential was more than any mage she had previously encountered. Strange, new magic she had not known existed, yet laid untapped within the girl. With some training, Rana would become a suitable host, one of the most powerful women in this world and hers.

Arzu drove Rana down the hall, compelling her towards the chair near the table. She nudged her foot towards the key on the floor.

"The chest," Arzu whispered. "Open it."

The lock clicked; the lid creaked open on its hinges. The canvas walls flexed, salt shifted. Arzu lifted herself from her prison, exhilarated. Controlling such a dexterous movement while covered in salt was difficult, but she managed it. Rana’s hand only faltered once. She shuddered, as though to throw off Arzu’s influence.

“Shh, I will help you," Arzu said, "everything you desire, you will attain. Trust me." Most of the salt had fallen away, its effect worn off. Arzu felt her power surge within her. With a flash of light, she seized control of the girl’s body. Rana reeled backwards from Arzu’s intense energy. "Replace me," Arzu commanded her. "Find another book, something red."

They crossed the room to the bookshelf. Arzu found a book of poetry. Based on the shelf's undisturbed dust, Sebastian never read it. Carefully, she lifted it away and stuffed it in the salt sack. She knotted it and locked it in the chest.

Satisfied, Arzu set the key back on the floor near the chair. Several minutes later, Rana climbed through the storage room window. Arzu ensured their arrival coincided with Fenris winning a hand of cards, so replacing the shutter would be unnoticed. Down the hall they went. Arzu stopped Rana at an unused room. It would be a suitable hiding place. There was a hollow window seat in the corner, intended for storage. She had Rana lift the cushion and set the book inside.

Arzu released her hold. Rana’s confusion was amusing. She looked about the room as though she’d never seen it before.

“What the—how did I get here?” the girl asked herself. “I-I was napping in the music room. How the hell did I get here?”

Arzu held back her laughter. “What a strange dream,” she replied, disguising her voice so it mimicked the girl’s thoughts. “And now I find myself in this room?”

Rana departed for the dining room, to join the others. Arzu smiled to herself, pleased with her accomplishments of that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach, this chapter! Writing Arzu was probably one of the most difficult sections for this entire story...and this story has very many sections. No matter how many times I write scenes with her, I get creeped out. Word to the wise: never write about Arzu at 3 AM with the lights off. Ye have been warned!! :)
> 
> \- Verdigirl


	8. Of Turbans and Trebuchets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to you all, for your continued support. Thank you, Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia, for exterminating superfluous ‘hads’ and commas. You are much appreciated! :)
> 
> I have two songs I listened to while writing this chapter; check them out in the notes below! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Fenris was relieved to have Ser Harimann review Sebastian’s political allies in Starkhaven. Their estimated financial support, supplies for troops, and the number of mercenaries they could realistically hire. Fenris had no idea how they would accomplish all this, or what his role in it all was, but he listened and wrote as neatly as possible, feeling quite proud of his meticulous note-taking. 

It was of the utmost importance he made a good impression with the Harimanns. It was their first Starkhaven meeting; proving Sebastian made the right choice naming him commander was paramount. However, Fenris knew he was at a disadvantage. Their stiff politeness didn't fool him. For Sebastian's sake, the Harimanns tolerated him. Barely. They held a clear, unspoken prejudice for Northerners and pointy ears.

Humans—Southerners, especially—rarely took Fenris seriously outside of combat. They thought him barbaric. And as much as he wished it otherwise, changing his appearance was impossible. Realizing this could be a major obstacle moving forward, he hurried home to find a resolution. After several days’ search, he settled on his new weapon of choice: a turban. At least it would cover his pointed ears.

Fenris sat before his bedroom mirror that afternoon in a cap, the black turban piled onto the dressing table before him. He hadn't seen that turban in years. It was the only notable item he brought with him when escaping Seheron. He hadn't worn it since that fateful night in the jungle— 

_'Don't think on it,'_ the voice in his head said. _'Don’t even go there.'_ But Fenris couldn't stop the memories from taking hold. They never heard or saw Danarius and his men through the darkness. He swept through the camp’s defenses, killing their sentries before Fenris could unsheathe his sword. Blood. Smoke. Screams rang in his ears and battered his skull. Over and over again, like a drum. He heard that awful word that made him shake even now, years later:

_'Why?'_

He'd asked himself that over the years. Why did he kill the Fog Warriors when Danarius commanded it? They were his friends, the only family he had ever known. They helped him escape, and yet he betrayed them.

The door latch clicked, startling him out of his painful memories. Fenris jumped in his seat, his brands flaring blue. He folded the cloth in half several times before stuffing the tail end in his mouth, wrapping the fabric around his head and over his right ear.

"I buy the nougats you like," Rana said, coming back from the Hightown market. She plopped a basket on the table. "I spoke Common well today. The merchant understands my words."

Fenris blinked hard and wiped his eyes, grateful she was distracted. She wouldn't see his shame. He would wrap it all in a few meters of faded, black cotton, so no one would know the monster he was. With one last inspection in the mirror, he pecked Rana on the cheek, thanked her, and left for the second Starkhaven meeting. He hoped he would feel more confident now that he was properly covered, but he could barely find his voice.

Fenris's eyes were glued to the table, refusing to look at neither Sebastian nor Ser Harimann. Whenever he got nervous, he reverted to his old habits. Painfully straight, barely moving, barely daring to breathe, ready to jump at the slightest noise. He hated how his heart hammered in his ears. Fenris strangled the quill in his fingers until the others regained their composure—they'd fallen speechless when they saw the turban. Sebastian elbowed Ser Harimann to stop staring, and they began the meeting. 

He felt more confident as time dragged on. By the end of the meeting, he was making suggestions and answering questions, instead of scribbling in his notes.

Ser Harimann sorted his letters and forms into a neat stack. "We're having a dinner party next weekend. Me friends from Starkhaven are coming," he announced. "I'd like ye to present yer siege strategy to them." 

"I-I thought that wasn't needed until the new year?" Fenris asked.

"Nay, lad. We need them on our side. They'll sway the Prince's Privy Council if they like what they hear."

Fenris’s brands burned and itched, light throbbing. A week? He only had a _week_? "I-I thought I’d have more time, Ser Harimann.” His accent came through.

"He'll have it sorted," Sebastian said with his 'let me fix this' smile. "I'll make sure, Ser Harimann."

"Please, call me ‘Uncle,’ Seb. Or ‘Da' if ye wish,” Ser Harimann replied. The man's mouth quirked. "It'll be true, soon enough." 

Sebastian may not have said anything, but the white-knuckled grip on the back of the chair spoke loudly. He collected their things and ushered Fenris to the door. "Damned shite," Sebastian said, once out of earshot. "Call him ‘ _Da_.’ Over me dead body." 

Fenris was too busy wondering how he could possibly accomplish half a year's worth of studying in a week to care about Sebastian's future father-in-law. Sebastian walked him to his front door before leaving for evening prayer. Fenris almost wanted to go with and pray for a miracle.

He practically lived in the library after that. Books and notebooks were strewn across the desk while maps formed a paper tablecloth. From the moment Fenris opened his eyes, he started reading and taking notes.

The process was insidious, creeping up on him while he methodically went through chapter after chapter of lofty, abstract military tactics. The books would often recommend reading material he didn't have or make references he didn't understand. Eventually his brain was moving so fast he couldn't catch up with it. Thoughts didn't connect; they clogged behind dams of verbal poison, the things Danarius said to him when Fenris was enslaved.

 _‘How dare you think you can be anything other than what you are? You’re nothing. Less than nothing. The sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be.’_ The words continued to ring in his ears.

Fenris couldn't focus. Pacing the garden wasn't calming him down. Music only added to the cacophony. As of late, he noticed Rana’s company was even more soothing and comforting. Those feelings were alien to him. One of the biggest sorrows of his life was having his memories robbed by Danarius’s filthy magic, leaving Fenris devoid of a childhood, of family, and connection. But he felt a connection with Rana; she anchored him. Her strengths had nothing to do with war strategies and predicting troop movements, but she happily set aside her music to review material he’d read. She took over his chores, ate in the library with him. He found her intentional mispronunciations of military terms amusing, and often actually laughed out loud. He truly appreciated all of her efforts.

With all his studying, Fenris felt more confident going into the latest meeting. He answered every question Sebastian and Lord Harimann could throw, having planned for every contingency. He had a solution for scenarios they had yet to mention. He even remembered what chapter he’d based his replies on. Then Ser Harimann’s daughter, Flora, strolled in and found a seat across from Sebastian.

Fenris had only met Flora once. That was years ago when he accompanied Sebastian and Hawke to the Harimanns' estate. His friends intended to investigate Flora’s mother’s motives for murdering Sebastian's family. But they found the wretched, power-hungry woman had brought demons to possess her husband and children. In a twisted turn of events, Sebastian killed the woman in self-defense.

Fenris remembered that Flora seemed quite unaffected after her mother’s death. She claimed her mother had been dead long before Sebastian dealt the killing blow. Fenris knew Flora had her motives when she promised Sebastian her support. She was looking for any way to the throne. And after all these years, Fenris was still wary of her.

It was clear Flora remembered Fenris, despite not saying so. She smiled affably, her eyes flicking up and down Fenris. The slightest hint of scorn flitted across her face. "What name shall I give the porter to announce ye for the dinner party?" she asked. "Oh, I forgot. Elves like ye dinnae have a name, do they?"

Fenris’s eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"Ye use yer master's name, aye? Something insufferably Tevinter, no doubt." The conversation across the table ceased. "Do ye hide that under the towel on yer head as well?" 

It took all his self-control to hide his disdain. He knew overreacting or getting defensive only meant losing control of the situation. "It's a turban, Lady Flora. And no. Only family members use the house name. I am neither his family, nor his possession." His old self-dialogue surfaced as soon as the words left his lips.

 _'You are,'_ Danarius hissed in his ear. _'You're a fool to think you could escape me.'_ An ache settled in Fenris’s chest. He gripped the hem of his tunic.

"Ye go by yer profession, then? Like the peasants in Lowtown? 'Fenris Swordsman,' or the like?"

"Enough," Sebastian said. His eyes were icy blue from anger. "Hold yer tongue, woman."

Flora scoffed, "I'm not yet yer wife. Remember that, Vael." She pushed herself from the table and left with a stiff curtsey.

"Spiteful little witch. Just like her mother," Lord Harimann muttered into his wine. "I must apologize, Sebastian, she's not been herself since we've arranged this party."

Fenris was once again humiliated. While he would have liked nothing better than to push himself away from the table and leave, he let it pass. He unclenched his fists to sweep his notebook and maps into his satchel. Ser Harimann adjourned the meeting and escorted the two friends to the front door before taking his leave. They stood in the street.

"I'm so sorry," Sebastian said, placing his hand on Fenris's shoulder.

He shook off his friend’s hand. "I don’t want your pity." Danarius chanted his poison at him, whirling round his head. "I'm going home."

"Ye up for cards tomorrow? I can tell Donnic—"

Fenris nodded and left before Sebastian finished. A dull headache followed him home, pounding behind his eyes as he locked his front door and leaned against it.

"It does not go well?" Rana asked, carrying a laundry basket. "I'm sorry, Fen."

Fenris sighed, "They hate me. Hours of study. I answered every question they had. Ser Harimann was pleased with my replies, I saw it. Yet they mocked me." He shrugged. "You know what they wanted today? My name, knowing I don't have one."

Rana leaned against the door next to him. "Take my name," she said, "until you find one you like."

He turned to her and asked, "You understand your words? Their meaning?"

"Yes...It’s a false name, Fen, nothing more."

" _Vishante kaffas_." This was far more than just a 'false name,' to him. It was who he _was_. He’d never had a surname; not _any_ name would do.

"We are not,” she pointed to her left ring finger. “I don’t know the word.”

"‘Married.’" There was a part of him that balked at the idea of marriage, even in name. Marriage was just another abhorred collar. And he wore one for long enough in Minrathous; he swore he would never do so again. He valued his freedom more than anything.

And yet his heart leaped at the thought of sharing a name with her. What did _that_ mean?

"…Is it me?" she asked quietly.

He heaved a sigh, "No. That's not—"

"I understand. I'm a Northerner. Cannot speak Common well. It harms your work." She blew out her breath. "This is your life, Fen. Use the name that brings you joy. I agree with what you like." She picked up her basket and left for the laundry room. 

He appreciated the sentiment, but it didn't help him decide on his next course of action. It bugged him for hours. He sat with his notebook, writing every name he could think of. ‘Fenris Spatha.’ Naming himself after a sword. He huffed and crossed it out. He tried a few in Seheran. ‘Fenris Bhediya?’ Danarius had always called him his ‘little wolf,’ back in Minrathous. Fenris shuddered at the ghosts the nickname dredged from the depths of his mind. No ‘Wolf,’ ‘Sword,’ ‘Soldier,’ ‘Gardener.’ He filled an entire page with crossed out rejections.

Dinner in the library that evening was awkward. Neither of them spoke, they just pushed salad around their plates. He skewered a blackberry with his fork.

"What is your name?" Fenris asked. 

"El-Khoury. My father's name." Her surname? That surprised him. He thought she was a slave.

"Who is your father?" he asked quietly. "You never speak of him."

"Merchant. What is the word? ‘Married?’ ‘Married’ to his coin." She stabbed her lettuce. “I don’t see him often.”

"You’re not a slave? I—when you arrived, I—” She blinked at him.

“I speak bad Tevene then. I do not know the words.”

It made sense. What slave would wear such clothes or be so educated? It was only logical that she came from money and privilege. A rich merchant’s daughter would be accomplished, raised to marry into nobility. No wonder she spoke Orlesian. He suddenly felt very foolish. “What does a monkey know of the taste of ginger,” he muttered to himself. “She’s not for you.”

“What is it?”

“Oh. Mm. T-Thank you for sharing your family name with me." He wondered if it was out of pity, her offer, to help the ‘poor elf.’

She nudged his arm, startling him. "I do anything to help you, Fen. You are my good friend."

His face heated as he mumbled an appropriate response. He tried pushing his questions aside, turning his attention to her reading. She often brought _Cautionary Tales For The Adventurous_ to read during dinner and breaks. They would take turns reading with different voices for each character. He was grateful for the distraction, and he realized how much reading together improved their dialogue and conversation.

The Chantry bells struck ten times. She kissed him goodnight and went to bed. A warmth spread in his chest. It was a welcome accompaniment as he studied. The brain-numbing hours stretched on. When he found himself doodling on the margins instead of writing about trebuchets, he knew it was time for bed. A smile crept across this face. 

'Fenris El-Khoury,' he wrote in a cloud of stars and spirals. He liked the sound of it.

* * *

Varric Tethras was not one for fancy dinner parties, especially ones thrown by Hightown aristocrats. They usually featured stinky Orlesian cheeses on their menus along with generous helpings of ulterior motives and politics. He'd usually find some excuse out of them, but this particular party's invitation had piqued his interest. It had the royal sigil of Starkhaven on it. 

_"'Sebastian Reginald Corbinian Vael, rightful Prince of Starkhaven, requests your presence on Monday, August 13, for an evening of feasting at the Harimann Estate in Hightown, Kirkwall,'"_ Varric read aloud, tossing it on the desk. "I must attend this one."

When Monday came, Varric laid out most of his wardrobe to choose an appropriate coat. He'd never given his clothes a second thought, but it was clear from the invitation this was no ordinary dinner party. It was a subtle call for campaign support. And, if his sources were correct, some of the most important people of Kirkwall and Starkhaven were attending.

Perhaps he should’ve gone to the tailors for a new coat.

At court functions, color and design meant everything. Messages and entire conversations could be relayed through clothes. They broadcasted who someone supported, their financial availability, their influence, all through their dress. Varric tossed his red coat aside. Red, black and silver were the Starkhaven colors. He didn't want to publicly throw his lot in with Sebastian just yet. A few others were rejected before he settled on a blue coat with gold embroidery. A loyal, generous, Merchants Guild member, it conveyed. Good enough.

It took a while to get to the Harimanns' estate, thanks to his short legs. Varric scanned the atrium. Several noblemen wore red and black in support of Sebastian's campaign. Those, he surmised, were the handful of families who pledged their fealty to him. On the other hand, the Starkhaveners had yet to declare a side from their greens and blues. He sniggered. They also looked as though they'd gotten attacked by the window dressings, with their heavy brocade overcoats.

"Varric, ye're here!" There was Sebastian at the foot of the stairs, dressed in the latest Orlesian fashions. He made a bold statement, with his all black ensemble. A bold, 'I haven't forgotten what happened to my family' statement. "I'm glad ye came."

Varric wished he could've felt the same. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said instead with a forced smile.

Sebastian introduced him to the Harimanns. The father was a typical ambitious nobleman, out of his league but possessed enough money to pay his way forward. The limp-wristed son ran the family businesses, he spoke of little else, but his sister, Flora? She wore a dress which was more attractive than she was. The candlelight exaggerated her strong features and narrow eyes. She wore crimson silk, with embroidered Harimann eagles entwined with the Vael heraldry’s black wyverns. Silver edging glinted in the candlelight.

“Good evening, Ser Tethras,” she said with a curtsey. “Yer support is much appreciated in this difficult time.” Which translated to ‘thank you for your generous contribution to our funds.’

Varric stifled a scoff. “I’m reserving judgement until after I hear the Prince’s plans, my lady. Where is our commander, by the way? He’s not here?” She sniffed, as though she smelled something foul.

“Ought to be preparing, if he kens what’s good for him. The entire campaign rests on his presentation.” She drained her wine glass in one gulp and reached for another on a passing tray. “Better off in the other room. Cannae have the Prince and Princess of Starkhaven associating with the likes of elves.” She drained the second glass and teetered away to find yet another. Varric shook his head. No wonder Sebastian never smiled anymore.

The Starkhaveners were members of the Prince's Privy Council, mostly. Many were unremarkable, but the Lord High Treasurer, Ser Drummond, may have been dressed in an unassuming gray, but Varric knew better than to underestimate him. The man stunk of Orlesian hair oil and was obviously scheming.

"Oh, aye, ‘Varric Tethras.’ I've heard of the Tethras brothers," Drummond said. "Ye have yer fingers in many pies."

"Mhmm." Varric helped himself to a passing platter of mushroom tarts. He was desperately bored, and the evening had barely begun.

"Didnae ken ye dealt in politics, too. The Champion of Kirkwall, the Prince of Starkhaven—ye've made all the right friends, it seems. Ye even got a cousin in Tevinter, aye? Married to an Imperial councilor? Remarkable," Drummond said.

For a treasurer, the man seemed exceedingly well-informed. Too well-informed, for Varric's taste, so he excused himself, drifting towards the hall. Two Privy Councilors were speaking softly near the archway.

“Seems desperate to invite Drummond here, no?” one asked. “Surely they could’ve had the Lord High Steward, instead. An easier target for Sebastian to sway.”

“Drummond’s already got to him,” the other replied. “Did ye ken he has the Lord High Chancellor supporting his claim to the throne, as well? Sebastian made a mistake inviting Drummond, but that’s what happens when ye trust a fool who canna tie his own shoes, let alone make a prince.” They silenced themselves as Varric passed. Maker, what was Sebastian getting himself into? Poor Fenris was headed for a viper’s nest.

Were there voices in the drawing room? Varric peeked in and regretted not bringing his notepad. Being a successful author and loving to write, seeing Fenris rush about the room in a turban was too good to not use in a story…

" _Rana, da mihi chartam urbem. Ubi est?_ " Fenris asked. He spread the map she handed him on the table. " _Venhedis!"_ He rifled through a satchel. " _Caudicem perdidi!"_

Varric had no idea what they were saying. From the panicked expression, he assumed a _'caudicem'_ was important to Fenris's presentation. Rana found a notebook under a stack of papers with an 'aha.' Fenris heaved a sigh of relief and kissed her forehead in gratitude. Varric cleared his throat.

"Varric! I-I didn't know you were invited. Are you enjoying yourself?" Fenris asked in Common. He went to run his hand through his hair, only to forget he was wearing a turban.

"Have you two been in here all this time?" Varric asked.

From the nervous laugh, Varric knew the elf was apprehensive about the meeting. Varric crossed the room to the table. He heard how busy Fenris had been with this campaign; he forwent nearly everything to prepare for this evening. Varric's eyes went wide at the charts, graphs, plans, and pages upon pages of information.

"Ah, Ser El-Khoury. Ye're ready for the presentation?" Ser Harimann asked from the door. The rest of the guests crowded into the drawing room, taking seats around the table. "Me lords, may I present Ser Fenris El-Khoury and Lady Rana El-Khoury. Ser El-Khoury will be leading our siege, and has brought with him a detailed plan."

'Fenris and Rana El-Khoury?' _That_ caught Varric's attention.

Rana curtseyed and ducked out of the room. Fenris watched her leave, his brands shimmering the slightest tinge of blue in the candlelight. He took a breath to steady himself and launched into his proposal. 

His presentation was a bit stiff, likely the nerves, but Fenris was thorough in his approach. He detailed everything so clearly even a layman would understand, then accompanied his plans with chess pieces representing the troops. He even had a model trebuchet that looked like something from a toy shop.

"Ye want to use a trebuchet," Ser Drummond said, "on the walls of Starkhaven? They've withstood Vints and their foul magic; what makes ye think a trebuchet would breach the walls?"

At the word 'Vint', Fenris set his mouth in a thin line. "It'll take out the buildings, not walls. When the garrison splits to take care of the fires, we'll draw the rest to the river port." He arranged his chess pieces. "Starkhavener archers are renowned throughout Thedas. I want to avoid prolonged stays on the bridge at all costs. The archers can easily pick off our men while they're on it. Using spies—"

"Spies?" Drummond looked personally affronted. "We're not Orlesians. What will we do with spies?"

"Open the city gate. We won't have to use a battering ram and can march right in."

As soon as Fenris would suggest something, Ser Drummond would oppose it. The challenges worsened when Fenris reached his 'piece de resistance,' as the Orlesians called it.

"Here, messeres, is a map of the sewers. Its outlet can be found under the causeway. I propose our engineers arrive ahead of the army and take the grate off the outlet. We can use the sewers to navigate the city and avoid the archers. The enemy would never expect it."

It was a brilliant plan, one Varric was quite proud of Fenris for formulating. Even Sebastian and Ser Harimann looked impressed. Several of the Starkhaveners were, too.

But not Ser Drummond. "Sewers? Bah. Ye told me the lad has military experience, Harimann," Ser Drummond said to their host. "I've heard nothing but Northern foolishness."

Fenris's veneer of calm visibly cracked, "I _have_ military experience. I served on Seheron and fought in the First Battle of Kirkwall."

"As a foot soldier," Drummond sneered.

" _I_ arranged the duel with the Arishok. _Me._ Not Marian Hawke, not anyone else. If not for me, there would be no Kirkwall. Ser Tethras and Sebastian can attest to it," his accent wavered as his voice sharpened. The brands were too bright to pass off as a trick of the candlelight, his eyes gleamed in the light the way all elven eyes did. Unnatural, alien-looking. Whispers hissed around the table. Varric didn’t need to listen hard to know they included ‘fiend.’

"We can vouch for him," Varric said loudly, to grab their attention. "I was there. We both were. You were, too, Ser Harimann. Every person of note in Kirkwall was." He would've said more, had a servant not come in to announce dinner.

Ser Harimann rose to his feet, smile troubled. "Let us join the ladies in the dining room. We can readjourn after supper."

The room eventually emptied until there were none but Sebastian, Fenris, and Varric present. Fenris stared at the door, face hard. His brands sputtered under his black tunic.

“You have to land their support to stand a chance,” Varric said. “Drummond’s already gotten to some of them.” He detailed what he’d overheard. Fenris narrowed his eyes at Sebastian.

“How many times have I told you not to trust the Harimanns?” he asked. “They’re shifty at best, and they very well could cost you the throne.”

“We’ll make it work,” Sebastian said. "…They didnae say 'no.'"

Fenris shot him a look. "Nor did they say 'yes.' Next week, you’re going to other cities and appealing to the nobles there, _without_ the Harimanns’ support. Stop this nonsense.” His jaw tensed. “This ‘Vint’ is not to be taken lightly.”

Varric knew nothing would stop Fenris once he set his mind to something. He escaped Tevinter with naught but the clothes on his back and the sheer willpower to survive. He was well-versed in turning anger into determination to succeed.

A different elf walked into the dining room than the one who had pitched war strategies earlier. This one did not falter when eyes invariably went to the turban. He met their gazes straight on and marched to his place at Sebastian’s right hand. The message wasn’t lost on the diners. Varric noticed a hint of a smile on the elf’s face at their astonishment.

The smile morphed into a smirk when Rana spoke fluent Orlesian. Varric understood why. Starkhaveners saw speaking Orlesian as a hallmark of civility. There were many that recognized Rana from her singing at the Harimann’s last party and around Hightown. She’d grown quite a following. Between her and Fenris, they worked the table in tandem, with an almost clinical proficiency. A classic strategy Varric saw time and again at the Merchants Guild. Fenris no doubt learned the skill watching Danarius deal with business partners. Watching them was more entertaining than Sebastian floundering through a conversation with Flora Harimann.

'Fenris and Rana El-Khoury.' Varric could work with that. He smirked into his pottage. Fenris and Rana’s adventures would make for an intriguing story. If he planned this correctly, this could be his next bestseller. The author in him already had the first chapter outlined before the next course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Rana, da mihi chartam urbem. Ubi est?: Rana, give me the city map. Where is it?  
> Caudicem perdidi!: I lost the notebook
> 
> 'Vint’ is the shortened, derogatory form of ‘Tevinter.’ It’s often used as an insult. And 'Cautionary Tales for the Adventurous' is an actual in-game book/codex entry, found on the Dragon Age Wiki.
> 
> Fact: The clothing colors in this chapter are based on real Renaissance and Medieval customs in royal/noble courts. After the French assassinated his father, Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, wore black to send a clear message to the French court. His color choice was described as 'dangerous and retributive.' Seemed an apt choice for Sebastian.
> 
> 0o0o0o  
> When writing this chapter, I heard this music being played in the atrium while Sebastian and the Harimanns mingled with the guests. I think it's the perfect music for a dinner party or banquet. :) 
> 
> Kalenda Maia: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cA2RQrdTNA  
> This piece, titled 'The First of May,' was written in the 1100s by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras. He is one of the most famous troubadours, who later became a knight and good friend to Boniface I, the king of Thessalonica. He saved the king's life in battle, and they were close friends ever since that day.
> 
> Dame Ne Regardez Pas: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFZedFkE1DA  
> This piece, 'Lady, do not look,' is from the 1360s, and written by Guillaume de Machaut during the Black Death. He was crucial in developing the motet, ballade, rondeau, and more.


	9. Dangerous Deceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my reviewers and commenters, I look forward to reading your thoughts! Thank you to the lovely Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing.
> 
> As of 6/26/20, I tweaked the past chapters, so you may want to give them a reread! I added some elements, and removed others for clarity. Nothing story-shattering, I promise! : ) 
> 
> Check the notes below for a Youtube link to the song featured in this chapter! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5
> 
> Trigger Warning: this first section contains elements of assault and abuse.

Marian Hawke heaved a sigh and leaned against the cleanest wooden beam she could find. She _hated_ merchant storehouses. They were so muddy and coated in a film of grime. Not only did they stink of rotting seaweed and mildewed crates, they also seemed to be favorite meeting places for fanatics and revolutionaries. It was almost as though storehouses owners rented out space to them for coin, as a side business. Just that morning, she and Merrill tracked a group there. Mages and Templars banding together to overthrow the Knight Commander Meredith. Marian held no love for the woman—she abused her position as regent and leader of the Templars to further her own agenda. Marian wished she could support the mages and Templars publicly, but they were destined to fail from the start. They never could trust each other. Ever thinking they could work together sounded like a fever dream.

Marian stooped and searched a dead mage’s pockets. No use in letting perfectly good sovereigns go to waste. 

"Hawke, you need to see this," Merrill shouted from a corner. "It isn't good."

Marian suddenly felt very old as she crossed the storehouse to the elf. Merrill handed her the bloody note she found on a dead Templar. "Those disappearances in Lowtown? I think this group was connected to them," Merrill said. "Creators, those poor people."

Marian shushed her, reading under her breath. Whoever wrote the note was educated. A mage, probably. Only scholars wrote with such graceful penmanship.

' _Get the Champion's attention quickly, we have too many hostages. Food’s run out. People starving.'_

Marian let out a loud sigh. This just got more complicated. If these hostages were linked to the disappearances in Lowtown, she would have to involve the City Guard. She could just imagine Guard Captain Aveline’s reaction to _that_ bit of news.

A weak cough sounded beside her. Marian spun out of instinct, blade raised. The young, bloodied Templar pushed himself up from the dirt floor and crumpled against the wall. "Please," he wheezed, chest heaving. "Don't kill me."

She squatted next to him, "Depends. Where are the hostages?"

"I—" Marian held her dagger at his throat. "T-The Wounded Coast. We have a place on the Wounded Coast. In the ruins. I can mark your map."

"No need. I’ll find it." The Templar shifted his weight. Her steel pressed against his skin. “Tsk, we’re not done. Those disappearances in Lowtown, they yer work?”

He nodded. "We only wanted to get your attention, garner your support for the cause," he moaned. "I told them. I _told_ them it wouldn’t work, but they refused to listen. They kept taking people, hoping you’d notice. That mage healer in the Undercity, they never should have taken him—"

Anders? They took _Anders?_ A spike of joy shot through her. Marian was finally free of him. She wanted to dance and sing, but such a reaction was nothing short of wicked. Sinful. She chastised herself for even feeling such happiness. "How long have ye had him?"

"Two days."

 _‘Hm. And here I thought he was staying at his clinic all this time,’_ Marian said to herself. Her gladness died, an icy fear seeping in. Anders was still alive, and would be angry it took her so long to find him. Her hand went to the scarf around her neck. If the spirit, Justice, awoke in Anders again, he may never go back. And if that was the case, her life was surely in danger. She got to her feet and rushed for the door. 

Merrill followed. "What about that Templar?"

"Void take him," Marian said. She tasted blood from biting the inside of her cheek. "We have to go." She fumbled with the door handle. Her fingers wouldn't cooperate. She stopped and turned back to the Templar. Merrill and Marian unbuckled the battered cuirass and pried it off. The Templar immediately sighed with relief and thanked them.

“I’ll be alright,” he said. 

"W-We have to _go,_ " Marian shouted. Anders would kill her if she delayed. As Champion of Kirkwall she was obliged to save the innocent hostages, even at her life’s peril. Her breath shallowed.

"Hawke." Merrill put her hand on Marian's shoulder. "We'll save him, I promise."

She didn't want promises, she wanted the screaming in her head to stop. It felt as if she was dying inside, that her stomach was shredding itself into ribbons.

They walked a lot that afternoon. Guard Captain Aveline insisted on accompanying her with a detail of guardsmen, after Marian told her about the disappearances. Marian needed backup for the upcoming fight—for there _would_ be one, no matter what Merrill thought. But her usual options were either busy or unavailable. Fenris couldn't fight anymore due to the brands, Isabela left Kirkwall on business. Varric, Maker bless him, offered to come with her and Merrill. He could keep the mood light with his banter and jokes, but her plan backfired. 

Varric tried to understand. "You live together. How did you not know? They took Anders _two days_ ago,” he asked as they hiked to the ruins.

Marian waded through the brush towards the old, rutted trail. The shortcut would shave a good five, ten minutes off their hike. "I thought he was staying at the clinic in the Undercity," she replied. "Ye know him. Busy with patients and such." 

"…You argued again, didn't you?" There was silence. "Hawke, did you hear me?"

She picked up her pace. "I'm fine, Varric."

"No, you're not." He jogged to keep up with her, "You’re jumpy, you’ve barely said anything since the city gates. You’re not yourself.”

He noticed. "Damn it, I'm tired."

He scoffed. "I wasn't born yesterday, Hawke. You're wearing a winter scarf in the middle of August." 

Merrill and Aveline's conversation fell silent. The sea breeze died, leaving the air sticky in Marian's lungs. She glared at the dwarf. "It's none of yer business," she said, voice low. "Leave it be."

He shook his head. "What did he do this time?"

 _'Tried throwing me over the banister,'_ she wanted to say. _'Went for me throat.'_ She closed her eyes, steadying her breath. The images bunched onto her eyelids. "Don't," she hissed. "Stop it."

"I know you love him, but why haven’t you left him—"

A phantom hand grasped her shoulder, another her neck. She flinched. "Stop it." She needed to run, to hide. S-She couldn't let the others see her like this. Marian crashed through the last of the brush and onto the worn trail. She ran around the corner and leaned against the cliff-face. It took all her concentration to stop shaking.

"Hawke." Marian tensed when Aveline stood before her, hand on her sword pommel.

"…Why didn’t you say anything?” Aveline asked. “I could’ve helped you. Arranged a safe place for you to stay. Gotten you out of the city.”

“I tried leaving.” She blinked hard. “He always found me. Too many eyes in the city. He paid informants.”

Aveline’s eyes widened. “He _tracked_ you?” She raked her hand through her hair. “I understand why you’re wearing a scarf. This ends today, I swear it. No one harms my friends and gets away with it.”

Marian's throat constricted. She bit her cheek, to keep the tears at bay. "Ye're a good friend, Aveline," she said. Her voice cracked, "Thank ye."

They pushed on, and walked straight into an argument between the faction’s leader and his second in command, a mage. Marian could’ve sworn she knew her. With a cry, the woman hurled a bolt of lightning at him. The faction’s leader collapsed, screaming, fried in his own plate armor.

The mage spat on him. "Damned fool, as though as we’d trust ye. Templars are nothing but trouble.” She straightened, eyes latching onto Marian. “Remember me,” the mage asked. “Ye killed me man when we tried escaping the Templars.” She drew a knife from her sleeve and scoffed. “Nay, why would ye remember? We mages are all the same in yer eyes. Subhuman monsters.” She gripped her knife and slit her forearm. Marian’s eyes widened, hands inching towards her daggers. That woman was casting blood magic. 

“Brethren, rise up with me. Freedom for the mages,” the woman shrieked. Crimson energy spiraled around her and shot out in spikes. 

Marian weaved and dodged the blood magic and, when the opportunity arose, pulled a throwing knife from her boot. She hurled it with all her might. It lodged itself in the woman's chest.

"Get down, Hawke!" she heard Merrill cry. A jet of ice sailed over Marian's shoulder and crashed into the woman. It sent her crumbling to the ground.

It was the most confusing battle Marian had ever seen. Ally turned on ally as mages charged Templars. Marian and her friends scrambled behind the remains of a wall. “There’s no sense to this,” Marian murmured. “Let them go at. We’ll wait.”

The fight was short-lived. Marian and the others crept out from behind the wall, sidestepping corpses. They spread out, searching for those who had been kidnapped. Marian found them barricaded in a collapsed building. She steeled herself at the sight of them. Dirty, starving. The collapsed roof forced the inhabitants into a corner. Then she saw him.

Anders laid against the crumbling wall, ringed by concerned onlookers. Some shook his shoulder, others murmured to him, but he didn't respond. He laid motionless, and Marian couldn't take her eyes off him. She stood rooted while Aveline escorted the hostages out. A singular thought blared in her head.

Was he dead?

There was a part of her that hoped it was true. She would be relieved if that were the case. Thankful. She prayed it was the case, dismayed at her own savagery. Marian Alessa Hawke hoped her lover was dead. May the Maker have mercy on her soul. Someone brushed past her, she didn't know who. She was too preoccupied with dreaming what freedom would feel like to pay much attention. 

"I think I feel a pulse," Merrill said, crouching next to him. Marian jumped at her voice.

"He's alive," Marian heard herself ask. "Ye certain?"

"Barely, but it's there." She bit her lip. "They used blood magic to keep him sedated. I don't know what spell. If one of the mages were alive, we could ask, but I'd be guessing otherwise. I—Hawke, I can’t wake him."

Marian stifled the laugh. There _was_ a Maker, after all. She caught Aveline’s eye as she came back to check on them. The Guard Captain gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She was telling Marian ‘you leave him.’ Marian had to stop the grin.

She turned on her heel and marched out of the room. She'd forgotten the last time she felt that happy, but then remembered her times with Fenris.

Merrill rushed after her. "Hawke," she cried. "What are you doing? What about Anders?"

"The others need help, too. You tend to Anders, Merrill." Marian looped an emaciated man's arm around her neck and helped him hobble down the trail. Anders would be livid if he knew what she was doing. True, the other hostages _did_ need their help. And they couldn't carry Anders _and_ help the other hostages simultaneously; too many were weak or injured. But she didn’t care. 

With a boldness that both impressed and frightened her, Marian seized freedom with both hands, and walked back to Kirkwall with a smile on her face. Not once did she look back.

* * *

Fenris leaned against the library desk, arms crossed. When Sebastian came in claiming he needed help with a last-minute errand before his journey to Ostwick, Fenris expected something normal like buying a new bow, perhaps, or new armor. Even choosing a new ensemble at the tailor shop would have been expected, because they were normal, mundane things people did before a business trip.

He did not anticipate a sack of salt containing a familiar red book.

"Why is this in my house?" Fenris asked, eyebrow raised. "You were supposed to dispose of this. Why did you bring this here, Sebastian?"

Sebastian bit his lip, "I need yer help, Fen. Ye ken how powerful this is. What if it attacks me again while alone on the cliffs?”

Fenris heaved a sigh. “Alright,” he shouted. “ _Venhedis_. Let’s just get this done."

He took the stairs two at a time, retrieving his armor from the chest and changing behind the screen. "Sebastian and I are going to the Wounded Coast," he said to Rana, buckling his cuirass. "We should return by nightfall."

“So far? What are you doing there?”

“Mm. Campaign business.” He felt a prick of compunction at concealing the reason for his errand. He was always forthcoming to Rana when it came to his affairs. It felt strange, but he knew it was for the best. By her hesitation, he knew she noticed his silence on the matter.

"I make food for your return," she said. Her words were weighed out, voice neutral. It made him internally cringe. "We can make a farewell party for Sebastian."

He poked his head around the screen. "He's not going to battle. He seeks campaign support in Ostwick." He strapped on his sword and followed Sebastian into the street.

It was a long, hot, dusty walk out to the Coast. Fenris couldn’t decide what was more uncomfortable: the sun beating down his leather armor, or his brands burning and pulsing to his heartbeat. "Let’s make this quick, Sebastian,” he said, leaning against an outcropping of jagged, battered stone, overlooking the churning sea. The strong east wind whipped at them, carrying their voices away. A storm was rolling in, casting gray shadows over the landscape.

Sebastian took off his pack. He found a heavy-looking stone and lashed it to the sack containing the red book with a heavy chain. "In the name of the Maker, be bound. May the sea be yer everlasting tomb. Angels guard ye, never to let ye escape. So may it be." He wrapped a string of onyx beads around the sack. Various holy medals dangled from it like fringe. "Should ye do it? Ye're stronger than I."

Fenris seriously doubted his arms could take hurling such a heavy sack, but the task had to be done. He braced himself. Fenris expected resistance, or that familiar foreboding he felt before from the book. But he was so absorbed in hurling the sack as far as he could, that it was only when they saw the waves engulf the sack and pull it under, that Fenris realized he felt nothing. No oppression, none of the malevolence that had previously emanated from the book. 

He wondered what would happen once the salt in the sack melted, but Sebastian assured him the sea was salty enough to keep it safe. And it had been bound with prayers and holy medals; no demon could ever escape that.

“Strange,” Fenris said. “That I felt nothing. That book has always made me shudder.”

“Come on,” Sebastian replied. “We’ve a long journey home.”

* * *

Rana waved until Fenris and Sebastian turned the corner and were out of sight. She locked the front door and popped the key in her belt pouch.

"Well," she said to herself. "You've got a few hours before starting dinner. Whatever shall you do with yourself?"

Braiding garlic, so she and Fen could do something enjoyable tomorrow instead of chores. She returned to the kitchen and plopped into her chair at the table. Braiding garlic was mindless work; somewhere between the first and second bundles she caught herself singing. Tears sprung to her eyes. It was her mother’s song, one she sang to Rana and her sister every night before bed as young girls. It only made her miss her mother more.

The more she braided, the more restless she became. Memories crowded in of her family. Playing backgammon with her sister and letting her win. Lunching at Liza, with its marble tables and chandeliers. Antique shopping in Basta for rugs. With every twisted strand of the garlic stalks, her eyes watered. Being homesick and missing her family was becoming more than Rana could bear. Every passing week with Fenris held more happiness and joy, and yet in spite of it all, she felt melancholy.

Her mind was swimming with conflicting thoughts, when she suddenly dropped the garlic. She felt an overwhelming compulsion pull her down the hall. “Wait,” she said. “Stop. What’s happening to me?” She found herself standing before one of the abandoned rooms in the house.

Rana felt compelled to open the door. The hair on her arms stood on end. Dread enveloped her. She immediately recognized this feeling. It felt like a claw dragging her towards the window seat. Despite her efforts to flee, she obediently opened the bench and retrieved the battered red book.

She heard herself scream inside her head. _‘No, ya Rana, don’t do it. Run! Please!’_ Her body trembled uncontrollably while her fingers lifted the cover. The room flashed with an intense light. Rana felt paralyzed, but her eyes were compelled to read.

* * *

Merrill gripped the strap of her satchel and hurried down the worn trail. There was no way she could travel the Wounded Coast at night: lanterns attracted bandits, so she reluctantly waited for daybreak. She pored through her spell books, searching for an adequate counterspell for Anders and departed before dawn. Merrill knew her efforts could be in vain—the spell used on Anders was powerful, she prepared herself for the possibility of him not surviving the night.

Despite his belligerent demeanor, Anders was a healer. There were many in Kirkwall that depended on him. And besides: Hawke would be so pleased to have her lover return.

She had never seen the morning fog cling to the earth so closely. It shrouded the ruins with a dense cover, without a sun to dissipate it. She gagged. The dead bodies from yesterday were still there, awaiting proper cremation at the hands of the city guard later that day. Merrill clutched her satchel strap, white knuckled.

“Silly goose,” she muttered. “Stop this nonsense.” She stumbled over a root—or was it an arm—and picked her way to the collapsed building. She nudged the door open. Anders was still against the wall, where she'd left him. She knelt beside him and drew a tome from her satchel. He was alive, but barely. At this point, she seriously doubted Anders was strong enough to stand the counterspell.

"Creators, guide my hands," she chanted in Elvhen, drawing her scalpel from her sleeve. "Preserve his life as well as mine." It stung at first, but Merrill was used to pain. She knew not to cut deep or long; only a little blood was needed when casting a spell. It was the intent, the magical potency behind it that fueled the spell-weaving. She turned to her bookmark and chanted the spell. The magic throbbed out of her in time with her heartbeat. It tugged at her mana, surged down her arms and out her fingers. She prayed it was the right spell. Creators knew what those mages had done to him—

A branch broke outside the door. The spell flickered from her distraction. She couldn’t falter now, not when she was so close to the end. Any false move could kill him.

A high-pitched whine, a growl. The hair stood on her arms. Wolves. They were here for the dead bodies, no doubt. Merrill hurriedly rushed the last clause, finally finishing her spell. Perhaps a few words were wrong, or her intent wavered. She couldn’t tell. A wolf scratched at the door and she stifled a scream. Merrill ran to the door, dragging a broken beam. She braced the door securely. She dropped the waterskin and loaf of bread near Anders and climbed out the window into the mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liza is a beautiful restaurant in Beirut, that has been featured in international magazines for its delicious cuisine and its décor.
> 
> Rana’s mother’s song: “Baby Mine,” from ‘Dumbo’  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtOyWfkg7Wc
> 
> So Rana’s mother would sing this in Lebanese to Rana and her sister every night. The words are so sweet and loving. This piece is special to me, because my own mother would sing this to me (in English) every night. So this note is dedicated to my mom: my best friend, business partner, and beta reader, AnnaLucia. <3 :)


	10. Fire And Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to post this latest chapter! Thank you to the magical Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing, as always. And thank you to all those who are commenting, please continue to do so. :)
> 
> Due to my schedule change, my posting will be every other week. Stay safe, everyone, and enjoy!

It haunted her. No matter what Rana did, thoughts of the red book didn't leave her alone. After that last terrifying incident, Rana avoided that wing of the house entirely. But the book continued to speak to her. It slithered into her thoughts, tempting her.

"What about your family?" it would ask. "Your mother's crying. Your sister's looking for you."

Every time she heard the voice, she forced herself to ignore it. She blocked out the voice, throwing herself into her music. Yes, she wanted to go home, more than anything, but not at the cost of using that unholy book. The Templars would imprison and execute her for using magic. And then there was Fenris: he would feel so betrayed, if he knew. There had to be another way.

It was like angels spoke when Sebastian offhandedly mentioned an ancient mirror. Merrill was restoring it, and if his theory proved correct, it could act as a gateway to other worlds. She remembered the story of Alice and her looking glass. Rana nearly kissed Sebastian when he told her that. A way out without the book. She could go home and take Fenris with her. He could be safe from his master, then. He could truly be free. Happy. 

Then Sebastian dashed her dreams. Merrill had not made progress in six years, let alone the two and a half months Rana was here. Rana locked herself in the music room and cried for an hour that day. It was so heavy on her heart, that news, but she had no one to tell. She dared not tell Fenris.

The nightmares continued. Night after night, she dreamt she was back in what she determined was a hospital. _Monitors beeped behind her, medical tape was affixed to her arms and chest. Again, she struggled to see or speak, but she felt the comfort of her mother’s hand on hers._

_“Ya Rani, it’s Imee. Open your eyes for me,” her mother said._

_Rana strained to do so, but it was no use. “Ya Imee, I can’t,” she shouted in her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks and soaked the sheets. “Help me. Please, ya Imee.” A man’s voice startled her._

_“Ya Dr. Aoun, take her away,” he said. There was scuffling at the bedside._

_“Trekné,” her mother cried. “Leave me alone! Ya Rani! My daughter! Unhand me. Help, someone, help!” Agonized screams, the slapping of skin on skin. Chairs overturned and clattered onto the linoleum floor. Her mother’s voice faded into the darkness._

_She heard that dreaded voice, soft and poisonous. “See, Rana? Your mother needs you. You must learn the ways of this book.”_

She woke up screaming every night. In the sleepy haze of her terror, Fenris would appear with his eyes reflecting in the dark. Her confusion scrambled his words of comfort into strange gibberish. She never knew if he was another nightmare, or just trying to help. The screams rang in her ears along with the book’s voice, wearing her down. She was convinced something happened to her mother. One nightmare she could’ve written off, but the same dream for a week? No. Something was wrong; she had to return home. It was irresponsible of her to stay here so long. Imee’s life was in danger.

Yet again, the book was calling. She felt compelled more than ever to go to it. Her common sense screamed at her to stop. Fenris was due home later that day. _‘All the more reason to act now,’_ she told herself. _‘Before he comes home.’_

It took every bit of courage and determination she could muster to force herself to open the door. That familiar fog enveloped her. Before she realized it, she was standing in front of the window seat. Her stomach roiled, her palms sweated at the mere sight of the red book. She wanted to run from the room, but her feet would not budge. Her mother’s life depended on her; she had to be strong.

The book, in her opinion, read dry. The yellowing parchment indicated to its age, to its horribly obtuse language. It was in Tevene, but she didn't know enough to understand half of what she read. From what she gathered, these were spells and rituals. Their purposes varied, but none of it mattered to her because she had no magic to cast the spells with.

“What is this gibberish,” she cried. “What good is it? I can’t even read this.” She narrowed her eyes at the page. “ _You promised me help!”_ Rana hid her face in her hands. "I can't," she whispered. "Dear God, I can't. I don’t understand it." 

"I can teach you the words," the voice said. "So you can read."

She jumped. "You lie. Go away."

A throaty laugh sounded at her left ear. Rana whipped her head around, nose nearly hitting the window. There was no one there.

"Come, Rana," the voice said. "You need to save your mother."

To her astonishment, a shadow formed next to Rana on the bench. It thickened and sculpted itself into a beautiful woman. "I am Arzu,” it said. “The 'spirit' cruelly bound to this book. I believe you’ll find it easier to speak to a person than a voice.”

Rana forgot every language she knew and stared. She was convinced she was going mad.

"What do you need, Rana? What do you want? How about being fluent in Tevene? I can make that happen.”

Rana dumbly nodded. She couldn't do otherwise. "How are you talking to me?" she whispered. "H-How can you speak Lebanese?"

The spirit snickered. "Come, you’re smarter than this. Spirits can speak every tongue created."

Rana nodded, face red. She was Alice stuck in Wonderland, talking to shadows and magic books. Would she wake up on the chaise lounge in the music room? "Why me? Why not Fenris? Why can’t he hear you?”

She scoffed. “The elf? That despicable elf? He was going to smother me in salt and hurl me into the sea, never to be free again. _You_ , though: you’re a very smart girl. I like you.” Arzu’s smile reminded her of a knife blade.

Rana gulped. “A-Are you going to possess me? Eat my soul?"

Arzu held back a laugh. “Oh, the rubbish they teach you in your backwards Chantry. Spirits and demons eat your souls? Not so.”

Rana noticed she really never answered her questions. She seemed to avoid them, mentioning desires and possibilities. How dozens of lifetimes could be found in one soul’s desires, and what a waste it would be to end them. Some things made Rana’s head spin and confuse her. Frightened her. She wanted nothing more but to run from the room, but the fog continued to cloud her thoughts. _‘Save your mother,’_ it said. _‘You must save her at all costs.’_

Rana shook her head to clear it. “B-But you lied,” she said. “The book is useless. I have no magic.”

“I’ll give you all you need, never fear. You’ll understand all in good time.”

Arzu never detailed what that entailed. Rana attempted questioning her, but the spirit artfully spoke circles around her, until she had more questions than before. It drained her, left her confused. Desperate. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “N-No, I can’t risk—”

Arzu sighed and flicked her wrist. The image of her mother, battered and bloodied, plastered itself across Rana's mind. She recoiled, screaming.

" _Khalas!_ Stop it, _leave her alone_.” Blood. The inhuman shrieks bore into her as she saw her mother tortured before her eyes.

“She doesn’t have long, you see. She’s being punished for your father’s business dealings.”

Rana covered her face with her hands and shuddered. I-It had to be a lie, she told herself. Baba’s business associates couldn’t go after his family if a deal went wrong. He would never put them at risk, until she remembered his partner’s legal troubles. The rumors of corruption and shady backroom contracts that were, perhaps, more than rumors. Baba never spoke of his deals or business. Rana wasn’t entirely sure what fell under her father’s company’s jurisdiction, only that it was incredibly varied. Perhaps Arzu _was_ right. Her stomach clenched when a shadowed hand held a knife at her mother’s throat.

With every fiber of her being begging her to flee, Rana heard herself form the words: “ _I’ll do anything, just leave her alone._ ”

With a twitch of her fingers, the vision dissipated. Arzu’s innocent smile widened, but when Rana turned away, it immediately twisted into a devious grin.

The longer Rana read, the easier it was to understand. Words shimmered off the page with color and light. They soaked into her; a warmth pulsed through her body. Rana shook her head. It felt like she was floating. The room spun before her eyes and made her nauseous.

“ _Khalas_ ,” she said. “That’s enough. I can’t read any more.” She returned the book to the window seat and turned to leave. A noise startled her. At that exact moment, the fireplace roared to life. Her jaw fell. “What. Just. Happened?” She looked about the room. “Wha—” Arzu stood before her. “Was that you?”

“No.” Arzu smiled sweetly. “It was you.”

What? “No.” Rana’s hands shook. “N-No, that can’t be.” The panic welled inside her and threatened to spill. “I-I don’t have magic. I _can’t_ have magic. _There’s no such thing as magic where I’m from._ ” The fire flared and licked the mantelpiece.

“You’d best become used to the idea you have magic, Rana. It will make things go faster.”

“ _Stop saying that to me._ ” She ran from the room, a clatter wafting into the atrium. She gulped. Fenris must have just gotten home. Rana ran upstairs, leaning against her bedroom door. “This is a nightmare,” she whispered. “Not real, this isn’t real.”

“Denying the truth does nothing,” Arzu said. 

Rana ignored her, shoving a candle into a holder. “Light,” she said, praying it would stay unlit. “Fire. Flame.” She had to prove to herself nothing would happen. S-She didn’t have magic. Wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be—The wick flared to life, burning a good portion of the candle down.

Rana yelped and nearly fell off the bed. " _Yi_ ," she squeaked. The flame bent and burned green. She got to her feet. "Alright, alright, ya Rana, calm down. _Khalas_ , enough." Ice gushed from her palms in sprays and plastered the nightstand. She felt sick.

"The mightier the emotion, the more potent the magic," Arzu whispered in her ear. "Your magical energy is rolling off you in sheets. Don't you know you’ll give yourself away like this?”

"What?"

"Fenris. His brands react to magic and energy. He’ll feel it through the lyrium in the brands, like one does heat from fire. The pain will come, and he'll know it was _you_ who caused it.”

Rana couldn't bear the thought of harming Fenris. Worse, she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her family through her irresponsible actions. ‘ _My family’s suffering, and here I am falling in love with a handsome, honorable swordsman,_ ’ she said to herself. She took a deep breath to steady herself. The candle flame disappeared in a hiss. Her eyes went wide.

"What’s happening to me?" Rana whispered. “How is this happening?” She felt impossibly hot. There was a tugging behind her sternum and a gout of flame swathed her hand. “Take it back,” Rana said. “ _I don’t want this magic_.”

Arzu laughed. “You accepted my help. This is my method.”

“You tricked me. You _tricked_ me, you—" Her voice raised at that last part.

"Are you alright?" Fenris shouted across the atrium. "Rana?"

She tensed. Fenris. She wanted to run down the stairs and into his arms. To tell him everything, but she couldn’t. The words were beyond her, true, but that wasn’t her fear. He would be obliged, by law, to turn her in to the Templars. She would be killed or changed into one of those Tranquils. A virtual zombie. Her eyes filled. He cared for her, but was it enough?

“Rana?”

She went to wipe her face, but the tears had evaporated. She gulped and forced herself out to the stairs with a smile.

"I-I’m fine," she said, voice wavering. "Fine. Bad dream." He hesitated before returning to the kitchen. The breath she was holding steamed when she exhaled. She ought to go help him put groceries away. It was unfair to make him do it by himself, but that aching tug behind her sternum was back. Spots formed before her eyes. The heat sucked out of her feet first, leaving her drained. It wasn’t until she let go of the banister did she see a frosted silhouette of her hands glinting up at her in the afternoon sun. She stared at it, numb, realizing she had to control her emotions, for fear of more outbursts of fire, ice, or worse. She shuffled into her bedroom, threw herself onto her bed, and drew the blankets up over head in utter defeat.

* * *

As Fenris was covering Sebastian’s campaign duties while in Ostwick, he spent every moment he could working. He often rose at dawn and went directly downstairs to the library, to the never-ending sea of mercenary contracts and supply invoices on his desk. Fenris sighed. He’d been at this since first light, and he still had baskets of letters waiting for him. Damn that he wrote so slowly. Reading was still an arduous task for him. There were many words he sounded out letter by letter, and that didn’t cover the cursive. He _hated_ deciphering cursive, especially Ser Harimann’s spidery script; it slowed his pace to a snail.

His leg jumped; his fingers drummed. His mind kept going to Rana, wondering when she would wake. Partly because he missed her, partly because he desperately craved a distraction. He heard a telltale shuffle at the door as she plopped into the chair across from him.

“Good morning, sleepy girl. Seems you’re alive, after all,” he teased with a smile. His smile faded when she didn’t react. “Are you well?”

She gave him a sad smile. “I don’t know.” 

He set the quill back in the inkpot. “Ran? What is it?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Tired. Studied too long last night.”

He narrowed his eyes. She had slept since he came home from market yesterday. Either she got up in the middle of the night to go study, or she was lying. He pretended not to notice. "This will cheer you. A letter came this morning. Ser Harimann wants you to sing for his son's wedding. All the nobles of Hightown are attending."

That piqued her interest. Some life stirred in her listless eyes. “Oh, that’s good news, I love weddings: they’re so easy and fun.” He raised his eyebrow. That was an excellent sentence, for her. Much better than her usual. Far too good for her usual level of Tevene.

He leaned in, "Do you know who the bride is? Lisbeth Reid, the Lord High Chancellor of Starkhaven's daughter."

Her eyes widened. “That means Harimann got the Chancellor's support for the campaign. Wonderful!"

He nodded. "We can turn the others from Drummond and take the throne without a war." Wait… "How did you learn so much Tevene overnight?” he asked.

The smile fell off her face and she studied the desk’s woodgrain. “I-I’m studying hard.”

“Studying what? We have no Tevene books.” She went to the shelf and handed him a volume. _A Dictionary of High and Low Tevene,_ by Father Rubrius Scio.

“I stand corrected,” he said. She’d been spending an awful lot of time in the music room, perhaps she _was_ studying. “I’m pleased for you. Well, for us: we can finally talk,” he said. “Don’t stop, this is wonderful.”

Fenris grinned. “Ya Rana, _yalla_ ,” he said, “we have a tailor to see about a new dress for the wedding.”

Her excitement was infectious. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” She ran upstairs to change. They hurried out the door to the tailor shop.

Fenris usually did not care for shopping. It was the norm for shopkeepers and tailors to refuse them service, or have employees tail them through the shop. This tailor was no exception. He launched into a line of questioning when Fenris approached the counter with a bolt of black silk.

“What’s this? For your mistress?” the man asked. His eyes flicked up and down Fenris. Of all the days not to wear a turban…

“For me,” Fenris replied, keeping his voice neutral. 

The tailor scoffed. “Not for you.” Fenris felt the corners of his mouth pucker into a frown. Whenever vendors took on that tone of voice, he and Rana were an inch away from being denied service.

But Fenris had prepared for this exact scenario. He pulled a parchment from his belt pouch. The Harimann's crest was prominently featured at the top of the stationary, the ostentatious calligraphy flowing freely across the vellum.

“Our invitation to the Harimann wedding,” he said, pushing it across the counter. “Ser Fenris El-Khoury and Lady Rana El-Khoury.” He couldn’t help but feel uneasy, resisted the urge to hide his ears behind his hair, staring the man down.

The tailor apologized profusely and rounded the counter. “At your service, messere,” he said. His fawning was rather amusing. Within the hour, Rana ordered four Orlesian gowns and several ‘Northern’ gowns. Fenris chose several doublets in the latest fashions, in addition to the long tunics he preferred.

Rana couldn’t stop smiling and thanking him. “Oh, Fen, they’re so beautiful! How shall I wear my hair?” He smiled, because he was the last person to be asking that question. Her eyes went wide as he counted out an outrageous amount of coin. "No," she whispered, "it's too much."

He looked to her and beamed proudly. "The Harimanns are paying me. And we’re close to the Prince now, we must dress and act accordingly." Buying such fine clothes meant a great deal to Fenris. As a slave, he had nothing but what his master gave him. Now, he was on his way to becoming one of the most important men in Starkhaven.

“I have letters to answer," he said once they locked their front door. "Apologies, but I must finish them."

"Go on. I'll be choosing music for the wedding," she replied.

He pecked her cheek and returned to the library. He threw himself into his desk chair and leaned his head back. Purchasing that wardrobe changed things. Starkhaven felt like a nebulous possibility, out in the far-off future. Some days, it felt as though it would never come to pass. The tailor’s turned it into something tangible. A dream that he could hold in his hands. Never in a thousand years did he expect to create such a fate for himself. The slave rising to power by the side of a Prince, but, more importantly, at Rana’s side. The terrified girl he’d found in a bleeding heap in an alley was now quickly becoming the toast of Kirkwall, and soon, Starkhaven. An internationally acclaimed bard who sang for Princes and nobles. Beautiful, wise, and so compassionate, and she was with _him_. He felt as though he was floating out of his chair.

 _‘What does a monkey know of the taste of ginger?’_ Danarius asked him. _‘You’ll never belong at court. Beast. Know your place.’_

“I do,” he replied aloud. “And it’s Right. Here.” Fenris took up his quill and, with a sure hand, signed his name at the bottom of a letter. _His_ name, that _he_ chose. “To the Void with you, Danarius.”

His defiance carried him through a stack of letters and paperwork. Fenris stretched, glancing at the closed music room door. Rana was certainly quiet in there. Choosing repertoire usually involved much more singing on her part, not to mention seeking his opinion. To hear nothing from across the atrium was eerie. He had half a mind to go and check on her.

"She's not a child," he reminded himself. "Stop it." He returned to the supply requisition letter he was writing. It was so incredibly dull. His eyes kept straying to the door across the way. Still silent. Was she resting? She _had_ said she was feeling tired, perhaps he should go check on her. He pushed himself away from the desk.

A knock at the front door sent Fenris's hand instinctively to the dagger in his desk drawer. He ran through a list of possible visitors, stuffing down a reflexive twinge of panic. Sebastian was in Ostwick. Isabela was on a raid up north. Aveline and Donnic were busy with guard inspection. Varric? He didn't usually visit at this hour. Fenris hesitated. Ought he pretend he's not home?

"Fen," a familiar, muffled voice said from the other side of the door. "Fen, ye in?"

He knew that voice, and was surprised to hear it. "Marian? What are you doing here? What’s wrong," he asked.

Puffy, bloodshot eyes stared out from a face bruised by tiredness. "Ye were right," she said, voice cracking. She raked her hand through unkempt hair. "About Anders. I—” she blinked back tears. “I’m alone and need to talk, Fen. Please?"

A headache started behind his eyes as he stepped aside. "Library. Come on." He poured her some wine and drew a chair. "What happened?"

She looked so fragile and lost as she sat on the chaise. "I killed him," she said. She fidgeted with the scarf around her neck to distract herself. "I killed Anders."

“Y-You what?" His headache intensified into a migraine. "You killed a man, and you came _here_? _Why didn't you go to Aveline?_ "

Marian launched into her story. It disturbed him greatly. She had been trapped, unable to speak out for fear of retribution. All those years, she smiled and carried on as though nothing was amiss. Public displays of affection: Fenris wondered if those were a front, too. He sighed loudly. He'd been blind to her suffering, to the signs right in front of him. Guilt ate at him. He _should_ have noticed this. He lived through the same thing with Hadriana and Danarius, yet Fenris hadn’t paid attention. She nearly lost her life from his negligence.

"I'm happy he's dead, Fen," Marian said, voice dull and flat. "I'd do it again and again if I had the chance. Let him wither under that damned spell and the demon that resides within him. Watch him die." Her fingers dug into her tunic. "Is that a sin? Will I go to the Void for him?"

In a quiet voice, he replied, "I asked Sebastian that, once. For Danarius and Hadriana. He said a sin committed under duress is the sin of the oppressor. You acted out of self-defense, there's no sin in that."

Her eyes filled and spilled over. He sat beside her on the chaise and offered her a handkerchief. "You're safe, Marian," he said. "You're free."

"Why don't I feel it?"

Fenris had no answer, because he felt the same. He patted her back as she sobbed. Months ago, he would've prayed for this to happen. The path was clear, no more obstacles lay between him and his Marian. He would've been overjoyed at the prospect, and yet now, he felt nothing. Sympathy, yes. Sorrow on her behalf—he was saddened to see her so unhappy. Secret relief and gladness that the Abomination was dead. His mind wandered to the room across the atrium, to Rana suffering alone. He should have been there with her, instead of with Marian.

"I can't stand me house, there’s too many unhappy memories. I’m alone, Fen. I hate it," she muttered. Her eyes pleaded.

"Stay somewhere else, for the time being. There are many inns in Hightown, or there's even the Hanged Man; Isabela's rooms are going unused until she returns." Marian nodded, drooping. "…You're not alone, Marian. Varric, Aveline, Isabela, me—we're here for you. We'll help you."

"Thank ye."

The door creaked. He turned in time to see Rana spin on her heel and disappear upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had different magic/elements for different emotions in my first draft, and fear was ice, and Rana pretty much was fearful for the entire chapter. Therefore, Rana had ice magic all over the place. Coupled with the 'control your emotions' vibe, my betas and I joked that she'd pulled an Elsa from 'Frozen.' :) 
> 
> -Verdigirl


	11. Rite of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to InfinitysWraith and AnnaLucia for being betas extraordinaire! And thank you to those commenting and kudo-ing (is that a word? It's officially a word). You are much appreciated. :)
> 
> Check the notes below for a Youtube link to the song featured in this chapter, and a piece that inspired Sebastian's scene!  
> Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Sebastian took a deep breath and greeted the fortieth courtier in what felt like ten minutes. After a fortnight on open water, he wanted nothing more than to rest once he arrived in Ostwick. But instead, the Teyrn insisted on a welcome banquet. He couldn't refuse. Not when his host was the ruler of Ostwick, and Sebastian needed his support for the Starkhaven campaign. No one else in attendance there, it seemed, was going to support him.

He expected the idle gossip, the whispers. ‘Debaucher,’ ‘wicked,’ ‘prodigal son.’ They swirled around the room as Sebastian made the rounds. Never mind that it was fifteen years ago, the Ostwicker nobles were very fond of dredging up Sebastian’s past, reminding him that his parents sent him to the Chantry for a reason. Some had the gall to walk away before he could introduce himself.

If he didn’t land the Teyrn’s support for this campaign, he was doomed.

"Enjoying yerself?" a voice asked.

Sebastian jumped. A woman stood beside him. Her eyes mirrored the strings of lapis around her neck, her hair a ruddy chestnut in the candlelight. Sebastian went speechless for a moment.

"A-Aye," he replied once he found his voice. He cringed when his face went hot. "Forgive me, but I've made the rounds and dinnae recall meeting ye—"

She extended her hand, "Cecily."

His eyebrow raised at her unconventional greeting, but he took her offer, "Sebastian."

Her mouth quirked, "The guest of honor is introducing himself at his own party? Whatever has the world come to?"

He smiled, "Anarchy reigning in the streets and chaos raining from the heavens."

Her laugh sounded like bells. "The stories are true, then: I thought ye'd be as dull as Alain Trevelyan. Or short, portly, and balding—but ye’re the exact opposite." Her wine glass singled out a man in olive green. "Infamous bore talks of nothing but his orchards and the Chantry."

"Seemed kindly enough," Sebastian replied.

"Ugh. He'll corner ye and go on about fungus addling his apple trees." She jutted her chin towards another knot of olive-green doublets. "Close to the Chantry, those Trevelyans." She sipped her wine. "Dedicates a family member to the Chantry in each generation. Sent their youngest, Agatha, last month: she arrived there kicking and screaming, they say. But ye’d know about that sort of thing, wouldn’t ye?”

He gripped his wineglass. “Me parents did what was best for the city-state. I would’ve done the same thing, in their place: I could barely govern meself, let alone a country. But I’m no longer a boy playing at being a man, despite what the courtiers may say. An ass may bray loudly, but is rarely, if ever, heeded.” He made to leave. Cecily’s eyes went wide at her mistake an she pursued him.

“T-The Seymours, they're the royal house. If ye sway the Seymours, ye get the Teyrn and the rest of the nobles."

Her advice was suspect. "Why are ye—"

“I’ve heard of yer good works in Kirkwall. Purchasing bread and medicine for the sick and poor with yer own coin. Avenging yer family’s murder. Admirable feats. Such stories would help yer standing at court, would they not? I could do that." She went to say more, but a portly woman wove through the crowd and interrupted mid-sentence.

"Yer Ladyship, 'tisn't fitting for a lady of yer standing to be unchaperoned with a man," she cried. "What will the court say?"

Cecily glared at her. "Ye're shaming me in front of our guest, Cas."

The woman offered Sebastian a deep curtsey, "Yer Royal Highness, ye must forgive her lack of decorum. She was anxious to meet ye." She snatched Cecily's wrist and led her away. Sebastian couldn't help but hear their conversation. "Brazenly associating with such a wicked man, like ye're some wanton. For shame."

"I'm not a child, leave me be."

"Cecelia Victoria Seymour, I'll not leave ye be until the day ye become Teyrna. And even then, I'll still watch over ye."

'Teyrna?' Sebastian asked himself. She was the future ruler of Ostwick? Sebastian watched Cecily disappear into the crowd. He suppressed a laugh. His tutor dragged him out of court functions for impropriety many a time. In that regard, he and Cecily weren't that different. She even shared his abhorrence for small talk and Trevelyans.

Her ochre gown remained a bright light within the sea of grays and drab greens. His eyes found her time and again. It wasn't until the second rendezvous at the punch bowl, that he realized she was seeking his presence. Much to his dismay, he didn't mind it in the least.

The next morning, Sebastian's eyes absently drifted to the council room door. Partly from boredom, but mostly because he hoped Cecily would arrive. _'Ye cannae put the campaign at risk over a pretty face,'_ he reminded himself. _'Stop looking for her.'_

Sebastian tore himself away and focused on the task at hand. Trade negotiations and supply manifests were far too dull to perform before noon. Perhaps the Maker would take pity and send her as a distraction. Her levity would make the morning more palatable.

Sebastian learned the hard way that Ostwickers were too shrewd to part with their coin and soldiers without a guaranteed return of their investments. Part of him suspected they doubted his ability to lead, thanks to his wild youth. The other part of him suspected they were just as stingy as their reputation purported. As Sebastian read the proposals to the council, they tore them apart, questioning every aspect.

Sebastian inhaled deeply, clenching his fist under the table. _‘Enough,’_ he thought. _‘I’m a Vael of Starkhaven, how dare they? I’m the son of a Prince, groomed for the throne: Not one here has spent the countless hours I have in the Chantry's library, preparing for this day.’_

Sebastian sat up tall, head high and continued with his proposal. He gave the same presentation Fenris did at the Harimanns, detailing the surprise attack from the sewers. He pointed to several places on the city map.

The Teyrn muttered something in Ostwicker. "As sound as yer Commander’s strategy may be, is it wise to put yer people’s future in the hands of an elf? And not just any elf, but a _Tevinter?_ " The council murmured their assent, several instances of ‘knife-ear’ and ‘rabbit’ came into earshot. And that was all Sebastian needed to hear.

He felt something shift inside himself, a piece that clicked into place hearing insults about his friend. He was no longer a Chantry brother; he was once again Sebastian Reginald Corbinian Vael, fearless Prince of Starkhaven with the world in the palm of his hand. He hadn’t felt like that since before his family had died.

Sebastian kept his face neutral, waiting for the table to quiet down. “Ser Fenris El-Khoury is a renowned warrior, Yer Lordship. He’s a seasoned veteran, and has saved me life and many others countless times in battle.”

The Teyrn scoffed. “Turning yer failures into bragging rights. Spoken like a true Starkhavener.”

He held the man’s gaze without wavering. “Ye may have misgivings, but I remind ye that me terms are much more advantageous to Ostwick than Drummond’s proposal.”

The Teyrn raised his eyebrow. “How would ye know about that—”

“Hear me: I’m offering ye a trade monopoly on all woolen and linen fabrics, a military alliance, and a presence at the Starkhavener court.”

“I want a trade outpost to look out for Ostwicker interests,” the Teyrn said.

“Aye. Fair enough,” Sebastian replied.

The man gave him a long, hard look. “I shall consider yer terms. The meeting’s adjourned.” They scrambled to their feet as the Teyrn swept from the room. The courtiers drifted into corners to discuss the meeting.

Sebastian gathered his materials. Dozens of eyes were on him, they bored holes in his skull. He paid them no heed. There were several days before they came to a decision. Every move he made, therefore, had to be effectual. 

He made his way down the hall towards the throne room. He knew, as the future Teyrna of Ostwick, Cecily would be performing her father’s duties while he was in council. Cecily stood at the throne, as Sebastian expected. What he didn’t expect was her speaking with the very man she claimed to detest, Alain Trevelyan. A knowing look lingered between them as she dismissed the man, turning to Sebastian with a fake smile.

“Ah! Yer Royal Highness. I see council has ended early.”

“Aye. May I have a word in private?” Sebastian asked, leaning in. He watched Alain Trevelyan pretend to strike up conversation with a courtier, still in earshot.

“Of course,” Cecily replied, leading the way towards an antechamber. Just as Sebastian expected, Alain craned his neck and tried to get away from the courtier. Cecily shut the ornately carved door behind them and offered him a seat.

“…I hear ye have much influence in the court,” Sebastian began. “What would ye expect in return for promoting me to the Privy Council?”

“Yer friendship, Sebastian. I'll be Teyrna one day, ye'll be Prince: both countries would benefit from our friendship.”

Too easy. “And if yer father signs the alliance? The point would be moot.”

“I can always use friendly eyes and ears in the courts of Kirkwall and Starkhaven,” she replied.

He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at her. “Do I understand ye correctly? Ye asked me to be a spy in me own court?”

Her smile was beguiling. “Oh, come, Sebastian: nothing wrong with early warnings. And I’ll do the same for ye.” Who was to say she couldn’t just sell that information to his enemies? “But do ye honestly think ye’re in a position to refuse? Ye need all the assistance ye can get.”

…Of course, he _could_ control what information he gave her, not give away anything. Even lie, if the situation required it…

“We have an accord, then,” he said. “An eye for an eye.”

“And a tale for a tale.” Cecily uncorked a cut crystal decanter and poured two glasses of wine. “To friendship,” she said with a smile.

He returned her toast. “To friendship.” He raised his glass, studying the contents. No powder stuck to the sides. No oily film floating on top of the wine. No sediment on the bottom, clear liquid. Seemed safe. Cecily noted his hesitation and drank, much to his relief. He took a sip, offering a cautious smile.

There were many things he missed from his life in Starkhaven. Intrigue wasn’t one of them.

* * *

Rana focused on the array of tools set before her on the desk. Next to a small bowl, an obsidian scalpel glinted in the candlelight. When she read of magic in fantasy books, she never thought it would involve... _this_.

"Magic is fueled by life force," Arzu said. "It uses you to weave the threads of the Fade into a spell. That is the principle of magic, to manipulate energy."

"If it uses my energy, why do I need a scalpel?" she asked.

"The energy must be released for the spell to work."

'Released?' That meant… Rana narrowed her eyes. "I froze that water just fine without all this." The pewter pitcher in the corner still bore frost, and she froze it several hours ago. “And I don’t feel comfortable with this—”

“The Chantry teaches you to fear your magic, and deny any part of it.”

“If I remember correctly, Arzu, _you_ were the one to give me magic. I wasn’t born a mage.” Rana pushed herself away from the desk. “I don’t trust this. It feels wrong.”

“Manipulating the Fade requires powerful magic. Blood magic will allow you to alter the Fade, stitch different parts together. Mundane magic cannot. Rana, your magic is uncontrolled, still: you must practice to gain control, otherwise your magical energy will flare with your emotions.” Arzu leaned over and tapped the bowl. " _This_ is the only way you can go home and save your mother.”

“But I thought it manipulates the Fade.”

Arzu scoffed. “Blood magic can do many things. Take lives as well as give them. Cleanse. Heal. The possibilities are endless.” The spirit grew frustrated with her. “Selfish girl, your mother grows weaker by the day. It's only a matter of time before she's gone, it will be _your_ fault—"

" _Khalas!_ Alright, alright." She clenched her fists and shuddered. Lack of sleep and constant worry for her family had worn her down. She couldn’t fight it any longer. Rana could actually feel Arzu’s grin coat her like a malevolent oil.

"Use your non-dominant arm. Cut parallel, not across. Short and shallow, not deep.”

Rana took a deep breath to steady herself. She took the scalpel. The bowl caught the spilling blood. The blade was so sharp it barely hurt.

"Envision the blood moving to your wishes. Will it to happen. Know it to be so. Call to the energy in it."

Rana stared at the puddle, concentrating. She delicately tugged behind her sternum, and the blood levitated a few inches into the air. She gasped. "Now what," she asked. "What now?"

"Command it. Mold it."

Droplets danced and spun while she played with them like putty. She bit her lip and cocked her head. The drops shot across the room, sharpened into spikes before lodging themselves into an old crate. The brittle wood shattered upon impact.

"Clever girl," Arzu said with a smile. "Again."

She managed to completely break up the crate with her practicing. Several spells went awry, flying into the fireplace, but she scrubbed the stone clean. She ensured the room looked just as she found it.

Exhausted, Rana bandaged her arm and hid the book, immediately retreating to the music room. The Chantry bells rang three times, and, just as she expected, Fenris returned from his campaign meeting.

"Ran? I'm home," he called from the vestibule. She went to him with a smile.

"I missed you," she said, kissing him. "You're in a good mood. Meeting went well?"

He hummed in agreement, wincing. "Ser Harimann actually spoke _to_ me for once, instead of _at_ me. I consider it a small victory." She wrapped her arms around him.

"How will we celebrate?" He flinched away. "Fen? Are you well?" she asked.

"Fine. I-It's nothing. The brands."

Arzu's words came to her. _'The pain will come, and he'll know it was you who caused it.'_ Rana stepped away, hands clasped behind her back. "Do you want to rest? I'll help you upstairs."

She watched him limp towards the library without a word. She knew he hated being a burden. Even when in pain, Fenris kept to himself. Lately his suffering was worse. A bottle of pain tincture used to last him two, three weeks. Now it barely lasted ten days.

She left for the kitchen. It was only a matter of time before Fenris made the connection between her and the pain. He'd know. He'd _know_ , and where would that leave her? Her hands shook as she stirred rice flour into milk and honey. Magic tugged behind her sternum and accidently set the wooden spoon on fire. She leaned her forehead against the hearth and fought the urge to scream in frustration.

They ate in the library. Fenris stared at his detested porridge, lost in thought. Or pain, Rana couldn't tell. Porridge was a common food when his brands were inflamed, especially around his jaw and throat. Chewing was painful. The idea that Fenris could know gnawed at her. Magic surged down her arm. Her tankard inched itself towards her hand, and Rana's stomach dropped into the basement.

"Tell me something. Anything," he said, falling back on the chaise. Hair stuck to his perspired forehead. "I need a distraction."

"I, erm…there's a Chantry with a Butter Tower?" That piqued his interest. "Many years ago, the Chantry forbade the people to eat butter for forty days every year, but they did anyway. They paid a fine to erase their sin, and the Chantry used the money to build a tower. Called the 'Tour de Beurre,' or 'Butter Tower.'" Silence. "Did you take pain tinctures?"

He nodded. "Why is it so awful tonight? I don't understand."

Rana forced herself to smile. "You're working very hard, Fen. You need rest." _'And to be left alone,'_ she added silently, clearing the table. Her distance would ease some of the discomfort. A knock on the front door startled her out of her thoughts.

"Fen? Ye in? It's Marian."

Rana dropped the dishes off at the kitchen and answered the door. "Hawke. Greetings," she said with a fake smile. "Are you well?"

Marian raised her eyebrow at her. "Since when do ye speak Common?"

"Fenris teaches me," she said. "He is in the library. I tell him you're here."

"No need." Marian pushed past and sauntered across the atrium. Rana trailed behind.

She didn't understand all their words, but Fenris seemed pleased to see her. They launched into a conversation, Marian helping herself to Rana's favorite chair. Fenris was either an excellent actor or craved attention. He looked too cheerful and animated for someone in considerable pain. Rana felt a twinge behind her sternum; she would’ve liked nothing better to turn Marian into a pillar of ice.

Rana stalked back to the kitchen to wash up. She had no place here. Her newfound magic tormented and pained Fenris; it only stood to reason that she should leave. Fenris seemed happy with Marian, anyway. And how could she ever compete with Marian Hawke? She was everything that Rana could only dream of being. Tall, svelte, champion of the people. Rana’s chest ached. It hurt so much, she never noticed the tug behind her sternum, and found the cups and dishes frozen to the counter.

By the time Rana returned to the library with the customary refreshments, Fenris was laughing at something Marian said. The corners of her mouth puckered. Perhaps the pain tinctures kicked in. Fenris must have felt better if he could laugh, and he needed that after a difficult work week. It was good he could laugh with his friend.

Except Marian wasn't just a 'friend,' and it annoyed Rana to no end.

"Play us something, Ran," Fenris slurred. The pain tinctures had definitely kicked in. "That song from your home, what is it? Farus?"

"Fairuz." She knew what song he meant even if he confused the singer with the song name. He often requested it after dinner. Rana fetched the lute from the music room and sailed past Marian, sitting next to Fenris on the chaise. Marian's annoyed expression after playing the intro was worth it. Rana added a few flourishes and trills to antagonize Marian further. Fenris's obvious pride in Rana only irritated their guest, until she excused herself with a hasty goodnight. Rana was pleased to see her go.

Marian invited herself over the following night, armed with a deck of Wicked Grace cards. As Rana did not play, Fenris spent much of his time showing her the rules. Marian rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath in Common. Choice words, no doubt. Fenris refused to translate, but to Rana's pleasure, he did not let them go unpunished. Marian yelped and rubbed her shin after Fenris kicked her under the table.

Much to Rana’s annoyance, Marian continued to visit. And Fenris never refused her: he was too considerate for it. Marian took advantage, and always timed her visits for dinner. They couldn't turn her away without seeming discourteous, so they found themselves spending numerous evenings with her. Fenris, of course, was so engaged in Marian's conversations that he never bothered to translate anything. They never noticed when Rana left to practice her music. It was all she could do to keep herself calm, or else her magic would flare.

It was after three bells that Rana snuck downstairs. Marian finally left sometime after midnight. Fenris collapsed on his bed after taking his pain tinctures. Rana settled herself on the window seat and opened the red book to her ribbon bookmark.

"Looking for something?" Arzu asked. "You haven't practiced what I've already taught you, yet you seek another spell?"

"Teach me Common," she replied.

Arzu scoffed. "Why? It's neither relevant to your goal nor useful."

"I want independence. I’m done waiting for translations."

"Is it independence you seek, or your elf's affections? For I see the jealousy in your heart. It's quite delicious."

'Jealousy' set her teeth on edge. Rana met Arzu's gaze head on. "A Northern mage speaking only Tevene is sure to die here."

"Hence why you must apply yourself to your magical studies, so you can leave as soon as possible—"

Rana slammed the book onto the window seat. _"Hence why I must protect myself."_

"Just admit that you want him, it would make things so much simpler."

Rana rolled her eyes. She and Fenris were _dating_ , not…they barely moved past kissing, let alone anything else. And if she was leaving, she had to maintain a level of detachment, as much as she wanted otherwise. "I'm not a patient woman, Arzu; will you teach me or not?"

Arzu was silent for a moment. "The runes and letters are the same, the sounds merely weave themselves in different patterns. Focus."

Rana stared at the page, centering herself. Letters shimmered in the moonlight, the magic resonating inside her like a strummed chord. Strings vibrated and weaved into new Common words and phrases, but that wasn't why she smiled. She finally had the means to put Marian Hawke in her place, and that pleased her to no end.

* * *

He did not remember coming to this cave, nor did Anders remember much of the recent days. He recalled waking to the whining of wolves, to the stench of blood and rot. Weak from hunger and the spell that was cast upon him. He remembered he found bread and a waterskin; the water hurt as it went down, as though his throat forgot how to swallow. He didn't even remember chewing the bread, he just swallowed whole as snakes did mice.

The rest was...Anders shook his head. There were flashes, sensations he recalled through the blank spots. Sunlight on his skin. Foraging for seaweed. But it was too bright, the sun. The salt air stung his nose. The rocks were too gray, and sky too blue.

How cold the world felt once he realized Marian had left him for dead, and had not rescued him.

It was a blessing, he told himself. Justice told him? It was impossible to know where Anders started and Justice began. He could finally dedicate himself to their work. Just he and Justice. There was nothing left for him, nothing to lose. No impediments. 

He skirted the main road to the city, following a trail hugging the cliff face. Such a path was perilous at that time of day. The black rock was slick from the incoming tide. The trail abruptly stopped, taking on a form of niches carved into the stone. Fingers slipped from their handholds as waves battered him. He nearly plummeted into the sea, but Anders pressed on. He had no choice. His eyes welled with tears. _‘Damn her,’_ he said to himself. _‘She left me. She left me for dead.’_

The musty stench and smell of sewage filled his nose once he opened the trap door to the Undercity. It was an unpleasant aspect of working there, one Anders always disliked, but that was where many of the poor and refugees eked out an existence. He turned a corner. The ramshackle clinic looked so lonely boarded up.

Anders found an iron bar in a junk pile and pried the boards off the door. He slipped into his old bedroom and took the loose wall panel off behind the bed.

 _'Test twenty: seventy-five parts sela petrae, fifteen parts charcoal and ten drakestone. Fuse test successful. Blew up a keg in the tunnel_ ,' Anders's spidery, splotched handwriting scrawled across the page. He stuffed the ledger into his belt, replacing the loose panel. One more stop, and he could return to the beach. He needed supplies, and expected to be very busy for the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Butter Tower is an actual tower in Rouen, France. In Medieval times, the Catholic Church prohibited the consumption of animal products during Lent, including butter. People paid so many indulgences/fines to the Church to eat butter during Lent that the cathedral in Rouen constructed a tower with the money. It was called the Butter Tower, and is still known by that name. Depending on the lighting, the tower’s stone can take on a buttery yellow hue.
> 
> Also, Rana's porridge is an actual Medieval recipe you can make, called Bruet of Almaynne, very popular during Lent. I tried it out for the sake of science, and it's perfect for breakfast, IMO. Recipe is as follows:
> 
> 1/2-1 tbsp rice flour (flour made of corn also works. Use more flour for thicker porridge, less for a looser one)  
> 1/2 cup almond milk (regular milk works, too)  
> 2 tbsp sugar or honey (to taste)  
> cinnamon to taste (my addition, but nobles would've had cinnamon, so)  
> salt to taste  
> 3 dates, 1 minced and 2 chopped (I often go without these, but they're nice to have)  
> Also, a tiny pat of butter in this is delicious, albeit not historically accurate for Lent. But it's 2020 and I say YOLO, add the butter :)
> 
> Method: Combine milk, flour, sugar/honey, spices, and 1 date in a pot, bring to a boil and lower heat to low. Heat until thickened and the flour is completely cooked, 10-15 minutes. Stir often to not burn or stick. Remove from heat and strain into bowl. I'm often too impatient to strain and just eat it at that point. Stir in your butter if you want to pay an indulgence fee during Lent, garnish with the rest of the dates, and serve it forth! :) 
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> Music of the Ostwicker Court  
> Because of its position on the coast, Ostwick is an important trade city for both Northern and Southern merchants. Because of this thriving trade, there is more Northern influence there from Antiva. Here is an 'Antivan' piece for you, that I heard when Sebastian met Cecily at the banquet.  
> Lamento di Tristano:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lKqEks5VMc  
> From 1300s Italy. It features two parts: the 'lament,' and the livelier 'rotta,' which made it popular for dancing.
> 
> Rana’s lute piece: “Sa'alouni El Nass,” sung by Fairuz  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P2jbJIgttM 
> 
> So this technically is a guitar cover of this song and not a lute. I tried finding one, but alas, I’ve yet to find a Renaissance lute cover. There’s Led Zeppelin (be still my heart!) and Metallica, but no Fairuz, unfortunately.  
> Another Rana favorite she sings around the house. Middle Eastern music utilizes microtunings and quarter-tones, which are the notes between notes. Such as all the notes between C and C sharp. While Western music has only those two notes, Middle Eastern music has several. So what Western ears may consider out of tune, is, in fact, not. It requires a lot of discipline for a musician to master.  
> “Sa'alouni El Nass” is very catchy, although this particular version is great for studying or writing. And for making Marian Hawke jealous. :)


	12. Shadows, Secrets, and Schemes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and support, I love it and love you! Thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing.
> 
> Check the notes for the song (Youtube link) that inspired this chapter! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

After Sebastian's conversation with Cecily, his stay at the Ostwicker court changed dramatically. Courtiers bowed to him in the halls as he passed. Influential members of court that previously ignored or snubbed him now invited him for games of Wicked Grace. Private concerts, salons, dinner parties with the royal family—it seemed he was fast approaching the highest echelons of the court ladder. And he had Cecily to thank for it. Cecily, who escorted him to every court function and dinner party, and seen with him every afternoon for a stroll in the garden. His veritable shadow.

He truly enjoyed it: there was little better than sharing company with a beautiful, intelligent woman. The second time Cecily and he met, she shocked the court with a crimson dress and silver dragon brooch, her auburn hair swept up and exposing her fair complexion. It was a clear departure from the creams and sky blues of yesterday, and told the court: 'I support Starkhaven.'

Each day, she incorporated the Starkhaven royal colors and crest into her ensemble. She slipped anecdotes into conversations, covered for Sebastian's past follies and bolstered his image. Her knowledge of court intricacies was impressive. The more invitations to parties and concerts passed Sebastian's desk, the more red, black, and silver he saw in the court. When several wives of Privy Councilors took to wearing dragon hair pins, he knew he had a favorable chance at securing the alliance.

Sebastian struggled to decipher Cecily's motives. Having eyes in Kirkwall would be useful, and the treaty terms skewed in Ostwick's favor, but the purpose for her dedication eluded him, even disturbed him. The more she pressed her 'friendship' on him, the more uncomfortable he grew. He was no stranger to the power hunger and deceptions rampant in the royal court. Using people to further ends and betrayal was a way of life for most.

What concerned him was how much he looked forward to Cecily’s company. It was the highlight of his day, now. He couldn’t wait to spend time with her, speak with her, stand at her side while facing the ever-scheming sea of eyes at court. He was quickly slipping down a steep slope, his hands not finding purchase as he grasped and scrabbled against the inevitable. His betrothal hung around his neck like a millstone, dragging him down: the more time he spent with Cecily, the more the name ‘Flora Harimann’ soured his stomach. If only Cecily was his betrothed, how happy he would be… 

One evening, a week after his arrival at court, Sebastian sank into the chair at the desk, quill poised. He was grateful he had the night to himself; as gracious the obligatory hospitality seemed, he desired nothing more than a quiet evening of writing letters and his favorite book—

"His Lordship, the Teyrn," a porter cried from the vestibule.

Sebastian picked his head up from his reply to Fenris’s letter. "Yer Lordship," he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He very nearly upset his inkwell. "This is most unexpected."

"Evidently, by yer reaction." The Teyrn strode in and seated himself at the table, "Come, sit with me."

It was clear Cecily learned her wiles from her father. The man was an enigma, and Sebastian hated the unpredictable. Unknown variables could be deadly. He drew himself to his full height in hopes that his tall stature seemed imposing, and joined the Teyrn. Sebastian studied his face, but gleaned no explanation for the visit.

The Teyrn helped himself to some wine from the decanter, "I come on business, Ser Vael. The Privy Council will vote on yer proposal tomorrow, and as ye saw this week, me daughter has ensured its…favorable reception." He paused for a drink. "While it's a start in the right direction, I cannae help but find there's not much to substantiate yer offer. Ye're promising things that aren't yers to promise."

'A good start in the right direction.' Sebastian wasn't licensed to offer anything more. "They are mine by right—"

"But they're not in yer possession _quite_ yet, are they?" The Teyrn leaned back in his chair. "What do ye have that Drummond doesn't, hmm? Why should I back ye? I've heard me daughter's tales of ye. Ye have the bearing and heart of a Prince. Ye care for yer people and are an honorable man, but ye have naught much else."

The subtlety wasn't lost on Sebastian. "Aye. I've naught much else but me name, ye mean. Which ye're no doubt interested in, I assume."

The Teryn smiled, "I am. I offer ye me counterproposal: the terms of the treaty as previously arranged, and me daughter in marriage."

Starkhaven was one of the richest cities in the Free Marches, thanks to its trading with Kirkwall; Ostwick was a strategic location to control sea trade to the North. Having familial ties to both cities would be beneficial, and joining House Seymour to House Vael would lend the Teyrn prestige.

Sebastian would be a fool to turn it down. He leaned in, "Are ye not advocating a matrilineal marriage? I thought Lady Cecily was yer sole heir."

"Indeed,” the Teyrn replied, a calculating gleam in his eye. "However, ye’ll not be at a disadvantage. Both ye and I will retain our own assets.”

‘House Seymour-Vael.' Very reasonable. "Ye understand I'm betrothed already?"

"Cecily’s informed me,” the Teyrn replied. “Ser Harimannn's girl, I recall. Yer main supporters in this campaign, are they not?"

Sebastian shifted in his seat, trying his best to not show his discomfort. "Aye. I cannae go back on me word to them without losing their support and labeling meself an oath-breaker."

The Teyrn scoffed a laugh. "Me good ser, ye've spent too much time in the Chantry—we have ways of persuading them to reconsider."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. His father's brand of 'persuasion' usually included a visit from the palace guard and broken bones. Would the Teyrn use such methods? "I am a man of peace, Yer Lordship. I dinnae advocate unnecessary bloodshed."

The Teyrn’s voice took on a slow, deliberate tone. "Everyone has their price. I'm certain Ser Harimann would not be pleased, should word reach Starkhaven of his…taste in bedfellows, hm? Too fond of the elven-folk, I hear.”

How the Teyrn ever heard of Ruxton Harimann’s elven lovers, Sebastian would never know, but if the man knew such a private, scandalous thing…Sebastian ran through every member of staff at the Harimann estate, searching for the potential leak. What else would this man know? The truth about Lady Harimann’s death? The embezzlement incident last year with Harimann’s son? Flora’s overfondness of wine?

Flora. Her very name made him shudder in disgust. Fenris’s letters described her heavy drinking: her drunken outbursts were becoming infamous around Kirkwall, despite her father’s efforts to conceal them. Her comments of ‘Murderous Prince’ cast aspersions on Sebastian’s reputation. It was all Fenris could do to discredit them as the wine-soaked ramblings of a foolish woman, but they both knew better. Flora was fast becoming a serious detriment to their cause. If the Teyrn was willing to do anything to make this alliance happen, it was only a matter of time before Flora became the means of Sebastian’s ruin. 

"Me supporters will want to see the treaty, of course," he said. "I cannae return to Kirkwall with marriage clauses in it—"

"This is strictly between us,” the Teyrn replied. “Once the Harimanns are dealt with, we'll make the betrothal public." The man leaned in. "Is it to yer satisfaction?"

Despite Sebastian’s elation over this proposal, he could not appear desperate or too eager to be rid of the Harimanns. Such a thing would be interpreted as weakness or caprice on his part. “May I sleep on it, tell ye me thoughts on the morrow?”

“Ser Vael, we vote first thing in the morning, and I have a theater engagement tonight. I shan’t be back until late.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Such a proposal requires time to consider, Yer Lordship.”

“There are times when the throne requires split decisions for the good of the land and the people.”

He was right. Sebastian quelled the protests beating against his skull. If he accepted this offer, he could lose Ser Harimann's support, that was clear. Possibly half of the Starkhavener nobles, too, but he would gain an entire city-state in their stead. A calculated risk, but ultimately better for Starkhaven. _He_ was the future Prince of Starkhaven, after all, not Ser Harimann.

"Aye, we have an accord," Sebastian replied.

The Teyrn beamed and raised his wine glass. "To the strongest alliance the Free Marches have ever seen."

Sebastian poured himself a small glass of wine and toasted, "To the alliance." Without looking obvious, he gave his wine a quick inspection before sipping, he could not smell or see any traces of poison. His stomach churned. It took several hours for even the swiftest poison to take hold; it was a grisly lesson he learnt from living at court as a boy—

There was a strange thump and clatter, like a rat scurrying inside the wall near his bed. Sebastian startled, head whipping to the wall. If he noticed, the Teyrn didn’t let on; he was already taking his leave, detailing the play he would attend at the royal theater. 

The turn of events followed Sebastian into his dreams, occupied his thoughts, dogged him the next day when he joined the Privy Council for the vote. If only Fenris was closer: he would’ve found comfort in confiding and sharing his concerns.

Sebastian looked around the council table. The long-faced councilors shuffled their notes, their gray robes-of-state drab and impartial. The council room doors flew open, a young man clattered in. He dumped his armful of scrolls and boxes on the table, catching his breath. Sebastian's eyes widened. Alain Trevelyan? He wasn’t part of the Privy Council; his presence was nothing short of illegal.

Alain straightened his gray robes and plopped into what Sebastian assumed was Lord Trevelyan's seat. "Apologies, me lords," Alain announced. "But me father is indisposed and too ill to attend council today. He's sent me with his notes and his blessing." Alain passed a parchment to the Teyrn's brother and royal treasurer, Ser Seymour.

Ser Seymour squinted at the seal. "He's sent ye as his mouthpiece, then? Unusual. But this is in his hand, there's no disputing it," he informed the expectant council-men, "The vote will still occur." Anything else Ser Seymour thought to say was silenced when the Teyrn entered. The room's occupants greeted him with reverence.

Once they seated themselves, the Teyrn said, "Me lords, ye heard Ser Vael's proposal. What think ye of it?"

"An advantageous agreement," Ser Seymour replied, "most generous."

"And the trade monopoly will bolster many industries, Yer Lordship," the Minister of Commerce said. "But the roads from Ostwick to Starkhaven are treacherous. Can Ser Vael accommodate over-land trade?"

Sebastian had prepared for this, "It's shameful to admit, but me cousin, Goran, has neglected our infrastructure, me lords. Me first task after securing the city is establishing a safe, clear route between our countries. The Royal Engineers are well versed in mountain roads and their maintenance."

Several more questions followed. Sebastian answered as thoroughly and precisely as possible. Relief came at the sight of the council's pleased murmurs. One by one, the Privy Councilors nodded their votes, and the treaty was approved in an unanimous consent. The Teyrn called for the royal scribe to bring forth the treaty. Sebastian's hand shook as he took the quill, but he signed his name with a purpose. The Teyrn stood and clapped Sebastian on the back.

"We must celebrate," the man cried. "A feast," he looked directly at Sebastian, "in honor of this happy union." Sebastian forced himself to smile.

The Privy Councilors swarmed him with their congratulations and grabs for ‘friendship.’ A game of cards. Next week's dinner party. All but one man had something to say. Sebastian craned his neck over the crowd and watched Alain Trevelyan carefully hug the wall and slip out into the hall.

* * *

Alain Trevelyan briskly walked to the alcove near the communal privy. Not too quickly as to garner attention. The Ostwicker court had many peepholes in its ornately carved walls; it was all too easy to spy on someone. Alain knew that from experience, with his spying on Sebastian’s room last night. It proved most informative. Alain smiled at his cleverness. A hand shot out from the alcove and pulled him into the shadows.

"Well? What happened," Cecily whispered impatiently to him. "Did we win?"

"Unanimously," Alain replied. He removed a scrap of parchment from his sleeve and handed it to her with a toothy grin, "Your notes."

She snatched it away and held it up to the light. Her eyes scanned the parchment. "I did it. I landed the alliance." She blew a long breath out. "Sweet Andraste. It's more than I hoped for."

"Why are ye so keen on this alliance, anyway?" Alain asked. "It means we're going to war, come spring."

She scoffed. "Haven't ye paid attention to what the council's saying? Ostwick needs over-land trade badly. With all the pirates about, ships are too risky." She folded the parchment up and stuffed it in the purse tied to her belt. "And besides, yer family should be pleased: wool will be in high demand."

"We grow apples—"

"And own a four hundred head flock, if I recall." How Cecily Seymour knew his family's business better than himself, Alain didn't know, but it vexed him to no end.

"Do ye not think of anything but Ostwick and ruling?" he said.

"Of course. Handsome Starkhavener princes." She smirked at him, “But I cannot deny ruling’s in me blood. It’s me birthright.”

A different voice sounded, "Ser Alain? Ser Alain Trevelyan? Ye're needed." Alain peeked around the corner. The royal scribe stood outside the door.

Alain grumbled, "I must go, they'll be needing me to fetch the Royal Seal and me father."

"Ye didn't bring the Royal Seal to a treaty signing? Fool."

"Me father denied me access. Said it was to remain with the High Lord Chancellor at all times." The scribe's shouts grew louder.

Cecily tapped her chin in thought. "In yer notes, what did ye mean when ye said 'the union of our two glorious city-states.' Was something else discussed?"

Alain held his head high and firmly said, "No. Nothing more," he looked to the hallway. "Cecily, really. I _must_ go."

Alain departed before she could protest. He turned the corner and smoothed his robes, and hurried down the hall towards his family's apartments. While his father dressed, Alain ducked into his own room. He rummaged for a parchment and dunked his quill in the inkwell.

_'Lord Drummond,_

_Vael has taken Ostwick. Alliance signed today, wedding arrangements made in secret last night between Vael and Teyrn. Vael quickly gaining popularity at court._

_-A'_

He folded his note and dripped candlewax for the seal. He set his signet ring in the wax and slipped the note in the usual hollow book for pick up.

An accomplice would remove the note later that day when clearing away afternoon tea. It would be two-to-three weeks before Drummond received his message. He would immediately make arrangements to have Sebastian killed, and then take the throne for himself. He would appoint Alain his Lord High Chancellor, just as promised. Alain could feel in every fiber of his being.

He'd wield the knife, himself, if that was what it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. In the name of research, my mom and I binge-watched 'Versailles' on Netflix to learn about court intrigue and intricacies. My mom got so into the show that not only can she correctly guess who's behind a plot, she also plans character assassinations and how to get away with them. I am simultaneously impressed and frightened. :) 
> 
> -Verdigirl <3
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> "In Hushed Whispers:" from 'Dragon Age: Inquisition.' https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IR2k6-_Hmc  
> This piece sounded like the perfect music to scheme to, and highlights the dangerous, shadowy underbelly of the Ostwicker Court. It almost slithers.


	13. Kintsugi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Huge thank you to Infinityswraith and AnnaLucia for beta-ing.  
> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains implied non-con, nonexplicit
> 
> I have a piece that I thought fit the feeling of this chapter's finale well. Check out the Notes below for the Youtube link :)   
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Fenris regretted ever saying the words 'I'm here for you,' because Marian abused them at every turn. She stretched his patience to the breaking point, inviting herself over every night, drinking his wine cellar dry, and recounting the inanest stories about their adventures. They became too repetitious; she was becoming more and more drunk with every passing night. Her laughter was morphing into an ass's bray. And at every opportunity, Marian smirked at Rana with barely withheld conceit.

Rana was also at her breaking point, after enduring the past two weeks of Marian’s deplorable behavior. She struggled to keep her composure as Marian’s baiting continued. Fenris tried his best to quell Marian’s unruly behavior, but shouting into the wind would’ve been more successful. It was a long time since last he felt so annoyed and manipulated.

Fenris heaved a heavy sigh into his wine, staring at the woodgrain of the table. He was ashamed of Marian, her crass behavior, her demeaning humor of insults and innuendos. Ashamed that Rana only knew the current version of Marian as his ex-lover, not the woman she once was. How poorly it reflected on him as a judge of character. These past two weeks surely opened his eyes to who Marian had become, such a stark difference from what he and Rana shared.

 _‘What was I thinking? How did I not notice this before?_ ’ he asked himself. _‘I’m actually happy; I don’t remember last time I was this happy. That hole inside me is gone.’_

The more he listened to Marian's tales of 'the good days,' as she called them, the more he realized they weren’t that good at all. Nearly three months with Rana, and Fenris saw Marian for who she truly was: a sad, lonely vindictive woman. He pitied her.

Fenris shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his tailbone burning. The brands were becoming unbearable. His clothes itched and burned his skin. Swallowing sent waves of pain shooting up his face. He drummed the table with his fingers, then abandoned that when it became too painful. All he wanted was to go rest. When Marian brayed at yet another one of her ridiculous stories, Fenris took the wine decanter from her.

"Enough," he said in a voice sharper than he wanted. "You've had enough."

Marian sneered, knowing Rana couldn’t understand her. "Not nearly enough to stomach the likes of her," she slurred, nodding towards Rana. "Why do ye fancy her, anyway? Nothing but a Northern prig, useless weakling. I'm better for ye. Always have been." She inched her hand towards his, her eyes pleading. He jerked away, lightning burning through his arm and into his chest.

Rana slammed the table and jumped from her seat. "Get out,” she shouted in Common. “I’ve had enough, too. I don’t want you here.” They stared at her.

Marian raised her eyebrow, her voice casual, "Well, well: full of surprises, ain’t ye, prig? Finally found yer tongue.”

“I asked you to leave. Don’t wait until I throw you out,” Rana said through gritted teeth. Fenris saw giant monsters of men cower before Marian Hawke, and yet sweet, little Rana, who barely came up to his nose on a good day, glared Marian down with a fire in her eyes that he never witnessed before. He couldn’t help gulping at her ferocity. His eyes widened when Marian’s hand went to the dagger in her belt. If he didn’t act now, all would be lost—

“She didn’t mean it, Marian,” Fenris said to defuse the situation. Rana’s hand went to her chest, and she took a deep breath.

“Marian Hawke has become a drunken, desperate boor that can’t keep her hands to herself,” Rana replied, never taking her eyes off their guest. “And I refuse to entertain swine that wallow in their own arrogance and self-pity.”

It happened so fast. Marian lunged over the table and went for Rana’s throat. Fenris didn’t remember getting to his feet. By the time he reached them, Rana grabbed Marian’s wrist and clouted her with the wine decanter, the carved crystal spraying across the room with unnatural force. Shards lodged themselves in the plaster, in the oaken door. Some glittered like stars in the ceiling. Marian went flying into the atrium.

He stared at her, jaw agape. “Ran, what did you do?” he asked in Tevene. “How in the Void did you do that?” 

Rana’s eyes widened. “I-I’ve been sparring with the training dummies in the courtyard?” She gripped her skirt. He rushed past her and went to Marian’s side.

“You nearly killed her,” he shouted. “I have to take her to Merrill. She needs help now.” Rana removed her sash so Fenris could wrap Marian’s head to stop the bleeding. He hooked his arms under Marian’s shoulders and steadied her as they walked out the door.

Marian sighed. “Don’t speak now, Marian,” Fenris said as they turned the corner to the Alienage. He’d never seen Rana like that. She never raised her voice or a finger against anyone, let alone shatter a wine decanter over someone’s head. This was truly unlike her, but Marian _had_ pushed Rana to her limit. Thankfully, Merrill was still up when Fenris arrived. She answered the door and gasped when she saw Marian.

“What happened?” she asked.

“She’s been drinking heavily for weeks,” Fenris replied. “I know you’ll take care of her. I’ll come back tomorrow to check in.” When he returned home, Rana was waiting.

"Are you satisfied now, Fen? I asked you a week ago to send her away, and yet you ignored me—”

"You know I couldn’t send her away. I need her for Danarius,” he replied.

“ _Damn Danarius!_ ” She clasped her hands and pressed her sternum. “You treat him like he’s an all-powerful god, like he’s—”

“He’s more powerful than any of you know,” Fenris replied. “You have no idea.”

Rana came towards him. “There are others who can help you. Marian is…not well in the head, she’s affecting you. Her sadness and anger have kept you locked in an empty void. You’re not that man, anymore, you deserve better than her.”

He knew Rana was right. Marian was abusive. He _knew_ that, but it was just so… sad, to see how much more she changed. Nothing would bring back the old Marian, the one fresh from Ferelden that found humor in everything, who was hopelessly optimistic in the face of adversity. _His_ Marian, the one he fell in love with. The one Kirkwall killed, along with her mother, sister, and everyone else she held dear.

Rana's words rang true, but then again, she didn’t know Marian’s past. A thought came to him. Rana had an unusual command of Tevene tonight, for one who only studied for three months. "Your Tevene is quite impressive. All that from your 'dictionary?'"

She shifted her weight and mumbled, "I'm studying hard."

She couldn’t be studying, there was dust on the shelf in front of the dictionaries. He intentionally left it there to see whether or not she spoke true, and she proved herself otherwise. How, then, did she go from barely coherent to fluent in a matter of a week? It didn’t make sense. "The dust on the dictionary proves otherwise. Do you study Common the same way, by staring at the book spine? What are you hiding, a demon in your belt pouch? Does it whisper words in your ear?"

Rana rolled her eyes. "I learn through listening and our reading practice. All my rehearsals for the Harimann wedding are in Common. I know enough that you didn’t defend me from Marian’s insults, nor discouraged her disgusting advances. Why is it I cease to exist to you once she enters the door?"

"You don't 'cease to exist,' I— _where is this even coming from?_ " he exclaimed. The sun burned under his skin, he was nauseous. If he didn't calm down soon, he'd be sick in bed, tomorrow.

"Two weeks of enduring her drunken company. You’re gone most of the day, and you choose to spend your evenings with _her_." She departed for the kitchen.

He gritted his teeth and limped after her. "Why didn't you say anything?"

She lashed the apron strings around her waist. "Wasn't it obvious? I left the room multiple times, but you were too busy listening to drunken stories to notice."

Fenris scratched his neck, "I-I assumed you felt ill—"

"You're right, I did." Rana shouted, pressing harder on her sternum. "Her behavior was sickening, and you allowed it to continue." She cast the scouring sand in a pan. It glinted in the firelight like glass. He gripped his tunic hem as a wave of pain washed over him.

"I would never hurt you; you know that, Ran." Did she? He wasn’t the most demonstrative man; it wasn’t his nature. He kept his thoughts and emotions to himself; it was necessary, as a slave. “I’m trying,” he said. “Ran. It’s difficult. My relationship with Marian was different than ours.”

Rana glared the dishes into oblivion as she scrubbed. The sand squeaked and scratched against the porcelain and put his teeth on edge. She heaved a sigh and set down her scrub brush. "It seems that you still love her," she said, voice low. So quiet, he barely heard it.

"What?"

“I expect an answer, Fen.” The voice that sounded so tired and pale grew stronger at each word, "If you do love her, say so and go to her." She attacked the pan again. "But don't you dare think I'll stand by and watch you court her."

Fenris's jaw fell agape. Firstly, he was astounded by her complete sentences on the topic. Secondly, the music and color in the world drained away at the thought of Rana gone. The sand scratched away at the plates, ceaseless, clawing at him. "...You would leave me?" he asked.

She busied herself with scrubbing to hide how quickly she blinked. She looked up from her pan and groaned. "Don't. Don't make puppy eyes. I'm not a schoolgirl, it doesn't work."

He wasn't aware he'd done anything with his face. "What are puppy eyes?” She raised her eyebrow and waited. He took a deep breath and gathered his courage, praying he wouldn’t say the wrong thing.

“It’s not a simple answer,” he murmured. “...It’s been six years. We’ve fought together, bled together, saved each other’s lives many, many times. You have no idea what I was like when I first escaped. She helped me through my darkest hours.” He turned her towards him and whispered, “But she could never compare to you.”

Despite his whisper, as soon as the words left his lips, they resounded between them like blaring trumpets. Rana’s eyes softened, the light from the kitchen fire sparkling like warm honey in them. His words rippled inside him, bringing every joyful moment they shared together to the surface, innumerable.

“You are my light, Rana. Without you, I’m plunged into unending darkness. My past has been riddled with suffering and horror, but I’ve come to realize nothing would be worse than living without you.”

Rana gasped and embraced him. “ _Bhebak atoul_ , ya Fen.”

A whirlwind of newfound emotion superseded the pain her embrace caused. “What does that mean,” Fenris asked between kisses. “What you said. What does it mean?”

“I love you,” she replied. “I will always love you, Fen.”

Fenris etched every sensation into his heart and mind. How soft she was in his arms, the jasmine hair oil she favored, how truly beautiful she was to him. Despite the pain, a warmth coursed through him. He relaxed into it.

Her hand wandered down his abdomen. He startled and winced. "Oh, Ran," he said, pulling away. Dread seized him. The heady mix of desire, contentment, and peace that enveloped him dispelled. 

She was insistent, "Don't you want to?"

 _'Yes,'_ every part of him wanted to scream. _'Yes—'_ But a very different hand—a hated, familiar hand smelling of cuticle oil and patchouli—made its way down his stomach. Hot, foul breath fogged onto his neck; he could almost taste the humidity in the air of a Minrathous rainy season. His stomach cramped, the last of the warmth dissipated and left him throbbing and aching from the brands.

"No," he said, stepping away. "I-I can't."

"What is it, Fen? What’s wrong?"

 _'Get in the bed, boy,'_ Danarius whispered in his ear. _'Don't keep me waiting.'_ Fenris whirled around and found a pot to vomit in.

"Fen!"

He was walking in two worlds at once. One foot in Minrathous, the other in Kirkwall. It became increasingly difficult to ground himself in the present. Danarius laughed. Rana demanded to know what was the matter and berated herself for her actions. The kitchen melted into a strange, morphing hybrid of Danarius's quarters and their larder that changed by the minute. Voices overlapped, buzzing in his head. The brands made him want to cry. They were awful.

"Was it me? Did I do something wrong?" She asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off.

"No," he croaked. He leaned against the fireplace. "N-No." It was all he could say, without his voice cracking.

"Are you ill? Let me help you upstairs." Upstairs to a bed, where Danarius was waiting. His eyes went wide.

" _No_ ," he nearly shouted. The voices let up in a collective hiss, but the respite was temporary. Another wave pent up; he could feel it seething and roiling inside. "It's not you, Ran. I can't do this."

She blinked at him. "Is it the brands? Are you in pain?"

He nodded. "There's...other pain." A mosaic floor flashed before his eyes, one he hated vividly. "In my head, my chest. I-I can't breathe." No matter how many times he inhaled, he couldn't get air. She brushed past and brought a kitchen chair for him to sit in. He collapsed into it.

Rana crouched in front of him. "Send air to your navel, ya Fen. Big breaths."

The brands made his chest spasm. He arched his back and forced himself through it. Breath in, hold for four counts. Exhale for four. He clung to her words like they were from the Maker, Himself. It was all he could do; words jumbled and devolved into screaming in his head, otherwise. Eventually, the kitchen stopped wavering, Danarius slunk back into the darkness. A ribbed bottle touched his lips and started him from his thoughts.

"Drink," Rana said. "You can't go on like this." She dragged another chair over and sat across from him. "…I'm so sorry, Fen, for the argument with Hawke. I should’ve spoken with you first. I made the pain worse—"

He took a swig and leaned against the fireplace. "I’m sorry, too. It’s my fault she was even here again. A-And I'm most sorry: Intimacy is… painful."

"Does this happen to you every time?" her face was one of fear and concern. "Apologies, I shouldn't pry—"

He refused to keep this a secret any longer. "No, Ran. You deserve an explanation." He chose his words carefully, "This happens, and I can’t seem to stop it. Memories come back, a-and I freeze." He felt ashamed to see the pain in Rana’s face. He nearly lost his nerve. "…You know Danarius owned me," he winced. "He forced me to do many horrible, unspeakable things that haunt me to this day. He gave me these," he pointed to the brands. “And the shock and agony were so great, my hair turned white. I-I was young, barely a man when it happened. All his other test subjects died, and there were so many times I wish I did, too.”

He’d never said that aloud before; for thirteen years, he held it so close, it cut his flesh and made him bleed. He fought to push those thoughts way, but they were always there, poisoning him.

Rana wept. He could've stabbed her, and seen less agony in her expression. His throat burned, his eyes itched: he wasn't normal, would never be. At that moment, he couldn't hold her or comfort her. His behavior would always be dictated by those wretched brands. How he loathed Danarius for inflicting them on him. Fenris's grief leaked out his eyes. He covered his face.

"I-I've never told anyone. I couldn't. It's so shameful, I-I'm less than a man for it. I can never be the man you want."

"But, Fen, you already are. I want you for you. Your heart, your soul: that’s more than enough. We don’t need intimacy now, Fen. Please don’t think about it anymore." He had no words, only tears. Rana stroked his head gently and said, “let it out, Fen. Let it out.”

She smiled gently. "Far across the sea, there's a land called Japan. It’s said when a piece of pottery breaks, the people don't throw it away. Instead, they repair it with gold, and understand that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken…You've never been more beautiful to me than right now, at this moment, Fenris El-Khoury. Thank you for sharing yourself with me. It's an honor. I don’t think there are words to say how difficult this has been for you."

She wiped his tears and he forced a smile. "Thank you, Ran. I am truly grateful."

She pushed the hair from his face. "I'm here for you no matter the time of day or night. To listen, to talk, or just be with you. Whatever you need, Fenris. We're in this together. You and I."

He nodded. "I-I need to be gather myself."

"I'll be upstairs, then," she said.

Fenris stared at the dying embers, shuddering. He was exhausted, drained, but relieved that he was brave enough to tell Rana the truth. A part of him worried she'd not be there come morning, but he pushed it aside. She loved him. He could never, in a thousand years, grow tired of hearing those words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kintsugi is a Japanese term meaning ‘golden joinery,’ and draws from the Japanese philosophy of appreciating the beauty of the imperfect. Kintsugi and what it represents helped me through some of my darkest times, and so, from one kintsugi pot to another: you are more beautiful for having been broken, and worthy of all happiness. 
> 
> Love, Verdigirl <3
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> Thedas Love theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ty7vRvLzycA  
> From 'Dragon Age: Inquisition.'  
> I love how poignant this piece is. You can hear the yearning and passion in it, but it's still soft and comforting. It's a little tumultuous, ebbing and flowing like the sea; perfect for expressing Fenris's emotions.


	14. Of Magic and Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. Sending hugs and much love to you all, my lovely readers. Thank you for your comments and support, you are much appreciated. :)
> 
> I have two pieces that I listened to for inspiration for this chapter, scroll down for Youtube links! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

“Shaping the Fade is too much for you to accomplish on your own; overtaxing your magical energy and body is deadly. You must supplement your power with the life force of others,” Arzu said, circling the desk. The candle flickered in the dark, nearly shining through her at times. It made Rana shiver. “Going home requires a sacrifice.”

Rana’s stomach churned. “…You want me to kill something?”

Arzu smiled. “Not _today_ , but when the time comes, you must do what must be done…” 

Murder. This was going too far. “I can’t kill anything,” she replied. “I-I’ll shed my own blood, but not someone else’s. This is wrong. It’s a sin.”

“Blood magic is, by Chantry Law, also a sin, yet it hasn’t stopped you.” Arzu leaned in. “For someone who claims she loves her family, your faltering dedication to rejoin them is surprising.”

“I—” her mind went to Fenris. “It’s not so simple now. I love him—”

“Did I not warn against attachment?” The candle flame flared. “He’s an infatuation, nothing more. An impediment.” 

Rana shivered. “I tried not to, but I love him—” 

Arzu reached over the desk and snatched Rana’s face with unnatural speed. “Deny me, and I will rain such destruction and woe on your head, you’ll beg me to end your life. I will torture and kill everyone you hold dear, starting with your knife-eared bastard lover and your mother.”

Visions of Imee’s face beaten, black with blood, flooded her eyes. Rana, trembling, shook her head and gasped. “ _Khalas_ —stop it! Leave her alone!”

“Foolish girl, you think these are idle threats? It was I that made you take this book from the Chantry and compelled you to read it. I can easily force your hand to slash his throat.” 

She struggled away from Arzu’s grip. “Stop, please… he’s innocent—” 

Arzu tightened her grip and hissed. “Listen to me, and listen well. You. Will. Take. Us. To. Beirut. Is that understood? You _will_ do what I command, because you are mine. Stray one inch from my words, and they die. I haven’t spent millennia bound to that forsaken book only to be denied my freedom.” 

Rana shuddered. She had no choice. Arzu had been relentless, calling her in her thoughts and dreams, turning them into nightmares when Rana was negligent in her studies. And now Arzu was threatening her with worse. 

“What do I need to…?” she sobbed. 

Arzu smirked and released her hold. “You need to do as I say.” She indicated to the door. “Now get out.”

Rana got to her feet and wobbled out into the hall, closing the door behind her. Her chest ached from shame and disgust as she tried to stifle her sobs and screams of frustration. Her body throbbed with magic, but she forced herself to control it for fear of errant bursts of flames, or worse.

“Think,” she muttered, pacing up and down the hall. “ _Think!_ You’re not going to kill anything for Arzu, ya Rana El-Khoury.” She stumbled across the atrium up the stairs, stopping short at Fenris’s bedroom. Her throat constricted; tears froze to her cheeks as she gently placed her hand against the door. Frost wound down her hand and puddled onto the wood beneath. 

Rana collapsed onto her bed, hollow, mind racing. Despite her efforts, she could not determine her fate. What would be worse? Should she concede to Arzu, or be thrown into the Gallows and be made Tranquil? It took many hours for her to finally fall into a fitful sleep. Rana didn’t know how much more she could take. 

“Please, Lord, help me, I beg you,” She whimpered, closing her weary eyes. 

* * *

Percival Drummond tossed the note he was reading onto his desk. Alain Trevelyan’s news vexed him, it was an unexpected and unwelcome development. Ostwick was supposed to be _his_. Trevelyan promised to sway the Privy Council and the Teyrn to his cause, swore it. His father was the Lord High Chancellor, after all: Alain had his father’s ear. It would be simple, the young man said. Easy. 

Drummond’s spies in Kirkwall claimed Sebastian’s elven general had hired five mercenary companies, several hundred men each. Over a thousand men, excluding Ostwick’s forces. Possibly...five, six thousand men in all, with Ostwick’s support. It would be enough to overrun Starkhaven and oust the garrison. 

Drummond needed reinforcements. More mercenaries, financial and political support. He couldn’t openly approach prospective candidates, not with the Prince’s eye on him. For he _was_ watching, even if Drummond’s supporters said otherwise. Prince Goran knew all that went on at court, and it made Drummond’s palms sweat. One false move, and he would be executed for high treason, his family would be beggared and exiled. 

…If that elf still intended on entering through the sewers, Drummond needed to quietly fortify the grate, wall up tunnels, make a labyrinth down in the undercity. Drummond realized that if he alerted the Prince to the battle plan, he would end up having to explain how he knew. He couldn’t let _that_ slip without mentioning the rest. His preparations had to remain secret at all costs. 

He could easily buy Sebastian’s death, now that he thought on it. That Orlesian woman, Madame d’Aubray: her handiwork was well known at the Starkhavener court. Be it a quick death or a long, lingering one, she was discreet as she was knowledgeable of plants and poisons. 

Drummond took Alain’s note and held it over the candle, watching it burn. The Harimann wedding would be too public an occasion to strike. Kirkwallers, Starkhaveners—a murder at an international affair would only drag Starkhaven into a war. 

Striking in private was his only option, but that, too, was risky. He needed the elf gone, if he wanted a clear path to Sebastian. Assassins wouldn’t be enough. Madam d’Aubray, however…He took a fresh parchment from his desk and dipped his quill in the inkwell. A well-placed vial of poison could eliminate both the elf and his master, if he handled this delicately enough. 

* * *

The Teyrn drummed his fingers on the war room’s table. It was sometime after eleven bells, but he still pored over the lists and letters strewn about. How to dissolve Sebastian’s betrothal without a scandal was proving rather difficult. 

“Ye said Ser Harimann threatened ye?” the Teyrn asked. 

The Prime Minister nodded. “Called it slander and libel. Said he’d discourage noble families from buying our goods, hinted at sabotage.” 

“Does he have that much influence?” 

“In Kirkwall, certainly, me lord. His son’s impending marriage into the Starkhavener nobility increases his standing there.” 

The Teyrn turned a parchment towards himself, “we can’t undermine the Harimanns’ influence publicly. We must do so secretly.” He heaved a sigh. “Send a messenger to the House of Crows in Antiva City. We have need for one of their assassins.” 

* * *

Fenris held a letter written on cheap parchment, in a clinical, angular script. An ink splotch marred the page, as though the quill hovered over it in thought. 

_‘Varania Davros sends greetings to her brother, Fenris of Kirkwall_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Much has transpired since our last correspondence, too much to write here: an entire volume would be needed, I fear.’_

Several sentences were written in phonetically-spelled Seheran, but were crossed out. Only several words remained legible, including ‘master,’ ‘danger,’ ‘intercepts,’ and ‘correspondence.’ They disturbed him.

 _‘I thank you for your generosity, brother. Thanks to the coin you sent, I secured passage for my son and I to Kirkwall, on_ The Gray Mew _. By the time you receive this letter, we would’ve set sail already. If the winds are with us, we should arrive in Kirkwall by early Harvestmere. We are both looking forward to meeting you: your nephew, Felix, has not stopped talking about his uncle, the greatest warrior in Thedas. He’s memorized every adventure of yours from_ The Tale of the Champion, _which is a great compliment… I believe you two will have much to talk about, when we arrive in Kirkwall._

_‘I remain: Your sister, Varania.’_

Fenris blinked hard and smiled at the dented parchment in his hand. Finally, after years of searching, he found his only sister. He wiped his eyes and searched his pocket for a handkerchief.

“What is it, Fen,” Rana asked, sliding into the seat opposite him at the desk. 

He sniffled. “I’m an uncle,” he replied. “I’ve a nephew, a sister. They arrive in Kirkwall at the end of the month, early Harvestmere at latest.” He sighed and carefully folded the letter, placing it in the desk drawer. “The brands robbed me of my childhood memories, Ran: for years, I believed myself alone in this world. To have a family, after all this time—” he trailed off. “I must prepare rooms for them, gifts. There’s much to be done.” His hands shook, he was so excited. He pushed himself from the desk, yet Rana remained motionless, head bowed. 

Fenris had been so caught up in his excitement, he didn’t mean to bring attention to Rana missing her family, and wished he could’ve taken back his words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel worse—” 

“No, Fen, I understand. I’m so pleased for you. You deserve every happiness, especially your family.” She knotted her fingers together in her lap. 

Her face was so drawn, Fenris noticed, her eyes lifeless and sunken. He knew she’d been tired, but this was concerning. “Are you well?” 

She sighed. “Oh, Fen, I just don’t know what to do.” 

“Why don’t you write to them?”

She shifted in her seat. “My home is not on any map, I don’t know where it is. I can’t reach them, not without unnatural means.” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“…Tell me. If you had to spill blood to save your loved ones from death, would you do it? Would you kill for them?”

“Rana,” he scoffed in disbelief. “Why are you asking this?” The excitement he felt from his sister’s letter faded. A sense of dread replaced it, a tightening in his chest.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Fen, a _terrible_ mistake,” she whispered, “and I don’t know what to do.”

“A mistake? What mistake?”

Rana smiled sadly. “Please remember this moment, ya Fen, because you’ll hate me after I tell you.”

“Stop. Nothing could ever make me hate you.” He meant it. Nothing could change what he felt for her; she had become his heart of hearts, his _anima_. He could never hate her. 

“Promise me, Fen.” She gripped the arms of the chair. “You know how the red book made me act out of character? I never told you how. It…speaks to me.”

“‘Speaks’ to you, in the present tense?” His eyes widened. “No, Ran, you’ve been very tired, not well. Y-You haven’t been yourself.” 

“Fenris—”

“I hurled that wicked book into the sea, myself. Sebastian was there. Remember that day I came home so late? That was what we did.”

“ _No_ , Fen, you don’t understand. It called me to the Chantry one night. It made me put another red book in the sack. _That’s_ what you threw into the sea. I-I have the real book. I’m so, so sorry.”

There was silence that seemed to last forever. Fenris fell back in his seat and stared at her, dumbstruck. The brands throbbed and ached. “Rana El-Khoury, what have you done?” he whispered.

She burst into tears, sobs wracking her. “It said it could take me home. There was no other way. Please understand.”

“Rana, you _lied_ to me, you _betrayed_ me. Y-You said you loved me.” 

“Fen, please, _please_. It torments, told me my mother is dying, that my family is in danger. I had to do something; I-I can’t let them suffer.” 

He jumped from his chair and forced his eyes to the stucco wall, fists clenching the hem of his tunic. His brands shimmered blue. “…It’s as I thought, then; the book did contain a demon. Who else would you be speaking to?”

“Her name is Arzu. It means ‘wish.’” 

He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. “A desire demon. Of all the damned demons in the Fade you chose the worst one?” His voice pitched. “Are you a fool as well as a madwoman? _You stole a cursed book and dealt with a desire demon?_ ”

He felt her round the desk to him. She radiated presence like light from a candle. Rana gently took his hand in hers. Frost spread under her fingers and trailed up his wrist. He snatched his hand away with a gasp. 

“Mage,” he whispered. “You’re a damned mage.” His beloved Rana, how could this be true? He was falling into an abyss with nothing to hold onto.

“But Arzu promised to help me,” Rana replied. 

“I’m not a fool, Ran; when a mage accepts the deal of a demon, they turn to blood magic. And you accepted a demon’s aid.” He snatched her wrist and twisted it to expose her arm. A bandage peeked from under her sleeve, and his jaw dropped.

“Arzu said I must sacrifice something to go home. If I don’t, she’ll kill you and my family, but I can’t bring myself to murder.” She paused. “Yes, I did learn other spells using my own blood. I’m so sorry, Fen.”

“You’ve been practicing spells? _That’s_ what you’ve been doing when I’m out?” Fenris grabbed Rana by the shoulders, practically lifting her off her feet. “Do you know what you’ve done to us?” He tightened his grip. “You’ve ruined everything.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re a mage. Worse, still: a blood mage. I’m required by law to turn you in; I’ll die, if I don’t.” 

“Y-You’re hurting me, Fen. Put me down—”

“ _Don’t you see what you’ve done to us? To me?_ You’ve shattered me into a thousand pieces. How can I ever trust you again? _I should’ve left you lying in that damned alley,_ ” he shouted. He dropped her into a chair like a sack of grain and turned away, his face in his hands. “Maker, why are you doing this to me?”

“Fenris, please understand—”

He shuddered. “Will you use me like Danarius did?” He rolled up his sleeve and nudged his inner arm towards her. Rows of neat scars flanked the brands. “Hm? Is that what I am, part of your plan?”

“No, Fen, _please_. I love—” 

“Love shouldn’t hurt this much. Show me where you hide the book, Ran.” He grabbed a bag of salt from the kitchen and followed her across the atrium to an abandoned room.

“Do you hear it?” She asked, her head in her hands.

“Hear what?”

“The screams. The book is screaming.” She pointed to the window seat. “In there.”

His eyes went wide. He opened the window seat and shoved the book inside the salt sack. Thin ribbons of smoke curled up through the burlap. Fenris shuddered and knotted it shut. He turned to the door, brain numb. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Even her voice stiffened. “Where are we going?”

He clenched his fists around his tunic hem. “You know where.”

“Please, _please_ don’t take me to the Templars, Fen.”

He turned away, too ashamed to look at her. “Go on, Rana.”

The silence crashed over them like a giant wave, the undertow pulling them deeper. He was drowning in it when Rana swept past him without another word. His throat ached with unshed tears, but Fenris forced himself to his bedroom to retrieve his armor. One foot in front of the other, it was all he could focus on. Fenris escorted the trembling Rana out into the street towards the bridge to Lowtown, wishing he could be anyone but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enlisted my mom to read the dialogue with me for the last bit, when editing. I may or may not have scared the dog while reading Fenris’s part (aka yelling when appropriate). Poor little Oscar needed cuddles and treats after that editing session! 
> 
> Fact: Marie-Madeleine-Marguerite d’Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers, was a French aristocrat at the court of Louis XIV. She was sentenced to death for conspiring with her lover to poison her father and two brothers in order to inherit their estates.
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> These two pieces from 'La Traviata,' the first opera I'd ever heard and my most beloved, were the soundtrack for this chapter's last scene. 
> 
> 'Che fai... Amami, Alfredo:' https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yA3z8i-UBlg   
> You can hear Violetta's desperation, regret, and sorrow in this piece as she sacrifices her happiness and leaves her lover, Alfredo, as per his father's request (poor Alfredo has no idea). In the climax, she says 'love me, Alfredo, as much as I love you,' because she knows he'll be very angry once he realizes what she's done. I patterned Rana's desperation and sorrow on Violetta's as she begs Fenris not to turn her in to the Templars.
> 
> 'Ogni suo aver tal femmina:' https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R_75uKeVO4  
> Well, Violetta was right: Alfredo was absolutely livid after finding out she'd left him. He follows her to a party, and confronts her. As Violetta has to keep her promise to Alfredo's father, she lies to Alfredo. He shames and insults her in front of the guests, saying horrible things in his anger. This is Fenris's reaction music, complete with the furious orchestra, dramatic delivery, and his world shattering after the climax once the chorus enters.


	15. Uncomfortably Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. And thank you to you, my lovelies, for your support! I love you all :) <3
> 
> Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

“Please don’t do this to me, Fen, I beg you.”

Fenris took Rana by the arm and led the way across the Hightown-Lowtown bridge, stomach in knots. He felt things shift inside him, so much anger, resentment, yet there was remorse. He felt numb from it all as he led her to the Gallows. “She betrayed me, she betrayed me,” continued to beat like a deafening drum in his head. It echoed through him and shook his bones.

He swallowed, a coal burning in his throat. If he let her live, and thus brand himself a criminal, it would ripple to affect the lives of everyone he cared about. Varric, Donnic and Aveline, Sebastian, Marian: guilty by association. They’d lose their reputations, occupations, the Templars would hound them, perhaps kill them. Could he knowingly do that for the sake of a girl he’d known a few months? One over many?

It disgusted him that he even considered such a question, even more so when its answer was ‘yes.’ What would his life be without her? For years, he’d seen a black hole in lieu of his future; he thought himself incapable of one until Rana came into his life. To go back to such a hopeless existence, to nothing. No one. Alone again. Pins pricked behind his eyes. To finally have happiness only to lose it again…

With all the torture, wars, and destruction he had endured, this was the most difficult choice he’d ever made. “Think, Fen. _Think,_ it’s a battle strategy,” he muttered to himself in Seheran, so Rana couldn’t understand him. “One step at a time.”

He felt the weight of Rana’s arm and body become heavier, as if her legs could no longer support her. Her continued sobs tore at him. They eventually descended into the Lowtown Bazaar. He stole a glance at Rana and cringed. She walked with a wooden gait, one hand clasped at her sternum. She was trying to hold her magic in, he realized, but it was obvious she couldn’t control the clink of ice falling from her hand and shattering onto the cobblestones. He scoffed, kicking the ice out of the way as they walked. Her face—He’d have nightmares of the terrified, heartbroken expression on her face for years to come, he was certain.

He looked at her and saw himself at the end of Danarius’s leash in Minrathous. It made him sick. 

The walk was long and laborious. The conflict of his choices gnawed at his mind and heart. Fenris shuddered as they approached the landing. If he kept right, they’d go to the docks for the Gallows ferry. It was simply a matter of left versus right. Left to live, right to not. He ran his hand through his hair. He’d never know peace again if he turned her in, but neither would he if he kept silent. Before he could stop himself, Fenris took her hand in his and made a very deliberate left turn, cutting through the slums as a shortcut. 

“I’ll never see you again,” Rana said, stumbling after him, completely oblivious to the route change. “Will the Templars kill me?” They stopped short at the foot of the stairs into the Alienage, staring at each other. 

Rana, dead. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. The brands throbbed and flickered in response to his emotion, but Fenris didn’t care. He threw his arms around her and clasped her to his cuirass. She made a little noise of surprise as he embraced her—he rarely, if ever, touched her thanks to the brands. 

“I don’t have the strength to fight you, Fen,” she whispered in his ear. “Just get this over with.” 

She didn’t know what he’d decided; he scoffed a laugh that landed somewhere between joy and relief. “I swear if my hair wasn’t white, you’d make it so,” he whispered. “How am I to live without you, woman? Answer me that.” She had no answer except more sobs. He leaned his wet cheek on her head.

“Listen to me, Ran: _no one_ can know you have magic. Do you understand? This secret dies with us. Our lives depend on it, Rana. Do you hear me? Swear to me you’ll never speak of this to anyone. No Sebastian, no one. Ever.”

She gasped, head snapping up to look at him. The relief radiating from her was palpable. Her kohl had smeared around her eyes, running in dark gray rivulets down her face, only adding to her look of utter exhaustion. He stroked her hair and let her weep.

“I swear,” she croaked. “On my mother’s life, I swear.”

“Vow you’ll never use blood magic again.”

“No, Fen, never again.” She seemed sincere in her conviction. His common sense screamed at him for believing her.

“You broke my trust. This will be the last time, Ran. Do you understand me? I may forgive, but I won’t forget.”

She nodded and laid her head in the crook of his neck, eyes drifting closed. Fenris wished he wasn’t wearing his cuirass so he could feel her body against his, feel her heartbeat against his chest. Reassure himself that she was safe, that everything would work out and he’d made the right decision.

‘ _Maker,’_ he prayed, ‘ _please keep us both safe.’_ Fenris wasn’t religious, but that day, he made an exception. He fished a handkerchief from his pouch and wiped his tears away, handing the cloth to Rana. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, voice quivering.

“The Witch. Merrill will know what to do with this damned book.” 

He led her into the Alienage’s central square, the giant vhenandahl tree arcing overhead. Its massive trunk had been freshly painted with its crimson base and white filigree. Rana stared, jaw agape. Her body still trembling and her hand still shaking, she reached out towards the trunk.

“It’s _sacred_ , don’t touch it.” His voice was sharp. She startled, hoarfrost creeping up her fingers. He felt a headache coming on. 

“Grip your skirts to hide the ice,” Fenris said as gently as he could. He dug around his belt pouch and took a swig of pain tincture, grimacing. His fingers already felt stiff and swollen, it didn’t bode well for the walk home.

“Stay here,” he said, setting Rana on a bench. “Please, don’t speak to anyone. As long as you hold your skirts, the ice shouldn’t be visible—not many can sense magic, you’ll be safe enough. I’ll be in the house over there, shouldn’t be long.” 

She sat and stared ahead, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Fenris heard her whisper what he assumed were prayers of thanks. He heaved a sigh and crossed the square, rapping on Merrill’s door. 

“Here’s to aiding and harboring apostate blood mages,” he muttered under his breath. “Freedom was interesting while it lasted.”

The door opened, a rather bewildered Merrill peering out. “Fenris? What brings you here?”

He held up the burlap sack. “I found something you may be interested in.” 

* * *

Merrill could count on one hand the friends who called on her. Isabela came when she was able—her new ship kept her busy, so her visits were fewer and fewer. Varric would stop by every now and again to check on her, knowing she was a young woman living alone. Hawke only sought her out whenever she needed something, but Fenris? He _never_ called on her, not in the whole six years she’d lived in Kirkwall.

Merrill narrowed her eyes at the elf across her rickety dining table. He perched on the edge of his threadbare seat and scanned the cramped room, taking in the stacks of books and herb jars that seemed to cover every surface. His white-knuckled grip on his burlap sack spoke more than his intentionally blank face did. 

“I never realized you owned so many books,” Fenris offered as way of conversation. “You have quite a library here.”

 _‘A civil conversation?’_ Merrill asked herself. _‘Fenris_ definitely _wanted something…’_ “They’re mostly on herbology and the healing arts,” she replied. “History and folklore, too, but mostly healing. For the elves here, you see; we haven’t a physician, they come to me, now that Anders is gone…” She heaved a sigh. “I must’ve used the wrong counterspell. Pity, he helped so many people, despite the demon in his head. Such a sad, strange man, Anders was. You said you had something for me?”

Fenris’s face blanched at ‘counterspell,’ his already peaked complexion looking even more ashy. “I-I found this book at the Scriptorium—the, erm, Chantry writing room,” he replied. The table rocked when he set the sack on it. “Of all the places in Kirkwall, I thought it would be safest with you. Sebastian and I have tried disposing of it properly, and it…wouldn’t cooperate.”

The fact the book was in a sack of salt told her what Fenris didn’t. This book contained something clever, dangerous, and too powerful for a Chantry priest to exorcise. It made her shiver. “What happened? Apparitions? Voices? Nightmares?” He stiffened in his chair.

“Mhmm.” He tried very hard not to have an expression, and failed miserably. He pushed it across the table to her. “I don’t care what you do with it, I don’t ever want to see it again. It’s disturbing.”

‘Disturbing.’ Just what she needed. She smiled and set it aside. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t harm anyone,” she replied. Fenris nodded thanks, wincing. 

Merrill stared at Fenris and did not like what she saw: dull, lifeless hair, shallow breathing, dilated pupils. The brands themselves were inflamed and discolored in places, taking on the olive tone of his skin, instead of the silver-white she was so used to seeing. The discolored patches stayed strangely dark while the rest sputtered unevenly. But that wasn’t what disturbed her. It was the glowing bits that looked like bleeding ink outside the discolored brands. 

Her eyes widened at her observation. “Perhaps it’s not my place to say, but you don’t look well, Fenris.” She bit her lip. “You look very uncomfortable.”

He folded his hands in his lap. “Nothing I cannot handle.”

“…They’re worse, aren’t they? The brands, I mean. They look inflamed and painful.”

His face shifted, pretenses falling away. “Yes. Pain tinctures aren’t helping.” 

Nor would they, when the brands were literally deteriorating and leaching into his bloodstream. She knew it was only a matter of time until they poisoned him. She gave him a small smile and crossed the room to a reference book, flipping to the section on blood purifiers. Her hands shook. Fenris was dying. He was actually _dying_ , and there was a small, wicked part of her that was glad of it. 

_‘He’s never been anything but nasty to you, anyway,’_ the voice in her head reminded her. _‘It would be no great loss if he died. He hates mages, you know that well.’_ But Merrill was a healer now; whether he liked her or not was irrelevant. She shoved the tempting idea aside. 

“I can make you some tonics,” she said. “Would you take them?” 

“I think I’d eat burlap if it would help, at this point,” Fenris replied. “You have my thanks, W—Merrill.”

She nearly dropped her jar of garlic flakes at that. In all the years Merrill knew him, Fenris had never called her by her name; she was always ‘the Witch,’ or the ‘Monster.’ Perhaps it was the lyrium dementing him, she mused, if he actually smiled at her. Merrill was certain he was physically incapable of it, but there was Fenris, half-smiling. He was rakishly handsome when he did, and he knew it, too, the bastard. Her face went hot as he widened his smile, eyes softening. 

Thoroughly flustered, Merrill returned to her herbs. Red clover, garlic, thistle and burdock. Elfroot, prophet’s laurel, wood apple: she put every blood detoxifying herb she had in her pots and set them on the hearth. 

“I’ll make you liver and kidney tonics; they’ll ensure your body filters everything well.” No response. She stirred her pots, stealing a glance. Fenris had taken the opportunity her fluster afforded him to search through a stack of grimoires, inspecting the titles.

Merrill narrowed her eyes. Did he even know what he was looking at? Isabela had told her once that elves in Tevinter weren’t taught to read. Merrill noticed Fenris browsing through her stacks of books as she prepared her tincture bottles. He flipped through a particular volume before casting a glance over his shoulder. 

The fire sputtered as a pot boiled over. “My tincture,” she exclaimed. She carefully removed the pot from the fire and strained her tinctures into her vessels, tying them into a towel. 

“I would be happy to pay you for this,” Fenris said, turning to her. 

“Oh no, it’s my pleasure—”

He counted out some silvers and placed them on the table. “I insist. I appreciate your help.”

Merrill replied with an appropriate courtesy, eyes drifting down to his oddly laying tunic. _‘Hm. That’s strange._ _Is that something under his tunic?’_ She asked herself. 

Fenris thanked her again, hand nonchalantly resting on his belt, arm draped over the strange area in question. He said his goodbyes, and departed. Merrill shook her head and latched the door, grimacing at the sack of salt on the table.

She heard voices whispering across the room, and her eyes widened. 

* * *

“What happened with Merrill?” Fenris shook his head, escorting Rana to the stairs. 

“I’ll explain later, too many ears here,” he replied. 

Both of them were quiet on the walk home, drained and exhausted, pointedly avoiding eye contact or touching. It felt surreal, almost, as though they were two strangers. It grated on him. By the time he locked the front door, Fenris was completely spent, but Rana, he could tell, felt even worse. She plopped into the nearest chair, pale, while he hauled water for a bath. 

“Come on, Ran,” he said. “You’ll feel better after a bath. I’ll make tea.” She desperately needed it, by the looks of her. He reached out to pat her shoulder. She shot him a glare and shuffled past him into the laundry room. He sighed and left for the kitchen.

Fenris cleaned up and changed into his housecoat. It helped relieve some of the stress and trauma of the evening. He padded down the hall and knocked on Rana’s bedroom door, book under his arm and tea tankard in hand. “Ran? May I come in?” No answer. He knocked again. “Are you awake?” He peeked in to find her staring at the wall. His heart sunk.

He set the tea on the nightstand and sat down next to her on the bed. “Feel some better?” Silence. He slid the book onto her lap. “I ‘borrowed’ this book from Merrill. It’ll teach you control your magic; you must read it and practice. You can’t walk around holding your sternum the rest of your life.” 

She nodded her thanks, head bowed. They sat in almost unbearable silence. “I’ll take my leave,” he said. “I’m sure you’re tired and would like your rest.” He made to leave. “Don’t forget your tea.” 

“Stay,” she whispered. “Until I fall asleep. Please.”

Propriety demanded he let her be, but Fenris didn’t care. Neither of them felt up to being alone at the moment. He gave her a smile that was as faded and tired as he was. “Certainly.”

She let out a sigh and fell back onto her pillow. “…Thank you,” she whispered, eyes drifting closed. “Thank you, Fen. You saved me. Thank—” She fell asleep midsentence.

Fenris sat there a moment. Peace stole over her features, smoothing out the sorrow and worry. He ought to have felt angry, he told himself, yet a stubborn fondness set in. It was so strong, it physically ached. “I swear you’ll be the death of me,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair from her face. “Magic. Of all the things, it had to be magic.” 

His hand hovered above her brow. This was not going to be easy; her choices went against everything he believed in. “What’s happening to me?” he asked himself. “I never would have stood for this in the past, and yet here I am, breaking the law for her. And I’d do it again, if I had to.”

Fenris kissed her cheek, tucked her in, and blew out the candle, shaking his head as he left for his own room. He took his new tonics and crawled into bed, but sleep eluded him. He kept dreaming of Templars hunting them through the streets of Kirkwall, of Templars breaking in and dragging Rana away. Of the destruction left in the wake of his decision—

He must have fallen asleep, because he never stirred until the next morning. It probably would’ve been the next afternoon, but the savory smell of bacon and eggs woke him. He stumbled downstairs to find Rana making breakfast. 

“Feeling better, Ran?” No reply. “Are you alright?”

She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “You have the audacity to ask if I’m alright? _Really?_ I couldn’t even say how traumatized I was, last night. I can’t believe you did that to me—”

A headache formed behind his eyes; he stared in disbelief at her response. “Rana, please: look at the position you put me in. I still don’t think you understand how serious this is. Sebastian’s reputation would be ruined, Drummond would turn Ostwick against us, and everyone we know would be guilty by association. They’d kill me, and _you_? I don’t even want to think about what they’d to do you.” He scoffed. “Your ungratefulness is astounding.”

She sawed at the loaf of bread. “You didn’t have to be so cruel. You could’ve told me back on the bridge if you weren’t going to turn me in. That was the longest walk of my life—”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I would do until the last minute—” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes widened at his mistake.

Rana’s jaw dropped. “What? What did you say?”

“Rana—”

“I would’ve known in one second what I would’ve done, and you? _You_ had to take almost two hours? That speaks volumes,” she exclaimed.

“Rana, _you_ don’t understand—”

“No, _you_ don’t understand. You kiss me in one breath and try to kill me in another. You owe me an apology, ya Fenris El-Khoury,” she shouted. She turned abruptly and stormed out of the room, both hands pushing her on sternum. 

Fenris pursued her. “ _I_? _I_ apologize? _You_ should be the one apologizing. _You_ were the one having tea parties with demons—” She slammed her bedroom door. He walked back to the kitchen, shaking his head.

“How did we go from ‘thank you, you saved me,’ to ‘I want an apology?’ I don’t understand.” He cursed; he’d been so upset, he never smelled the smoke wafting from the hearth. Fenris grabbed a towel and rescued the pan, but it was too late. The entire breakfast was burnt. 

The rest of the day followed the morning’s pattern. He couldn’t concentrate on his letters. What were simple replies took hours, thanks to his mind turning to the girl upstairs. Eventually the midday Chantry bells rang, so he called Rana from the bottom of the stairs. “Sebastian’s ship is due; we have to go to the docks.” Her door squeaked open.

“That’s nice. I’m not going,” she replied and slammed the door.

He was at a loss for what to do or say. Fenris decided it was best to leave her be. He collected his things, muttering under his breath, and left. 

* * *

Being born a mage into the Dalish elves, Merrill dedicated her life to serving others with her magic. It was expected of her, her duty to her clan. Any way she could help the People, as the Dalish called themselves, was her life’s work. Her love of history and her passion to preserve the Elvhen heritage fueled her desire to restore the incredibly rare enchanted mirror in her room. She was always aware of the dangers inherent in her work, and thus always prepared herself beforehand. She stared down the sack on her dining table, formulating her strategy.

If a priest and a swordsman couldn’t dispose of this spirit, she had no hope in doing so alone. It was too dangerous and powerful to cross or anger; if Merrill wanted any hope of surviving—or, better yet, not ending up an abomination—she had to stay in the spirit’s good graces. She would let the spirit believe they were working together when, in reality, _it_ was working for _her_. 

Merrill drummed on the table. She had every intention to milk this opportunity, glean as much as she could from it. She’d restore the mirror. She’d learn all the secrets of the book, and become a better healer than Anders ever could be. She’d help her people and those of the Alienage as never before. If Merrill couldn’t return to her clan, she’d make a community through her good works and services here in Kirkwall. She would finally belong, serve her calling and, most of all, be respected. 

Merrill opened the sack and scattered a wide ring of salt around it. The strong metallic smell of burnt salt hit her. She brushed the last grains of salt away from the tattered cover, and the candle flickered. Merrill set her jaw and flipped to a random page.

“That wench. She betrayed me, denied me my freedom,” a voice hissed. Merrill jumped. Was it in the room, in her head? She couldn’t tell and it unnerved her.

“Whoever she is, she’s not worth your time,” Merrill replied in a loud, clear voice. “She didn’t appreciate you or your power.” There was breath on her neck, a presence that circled around her. It made Merrill’s hair stand on end. 

“You’re an…interesting one,” the spirit said, shadowy eyes drifting up and down Merrill. “Skilled in your craft. More fortitude than that mewling girl, and you’re willing, too. Fascinating.” It leaned in. “I have a proposition for you. Your mirror: I can help you restore it.”

Excellent, just what she wanted. Merrill smiled. “And your condition?” 

“You unbind me from my prison and let me go through the mirror. I tire of this mortal realm; I long for other places.” 

Merrill held back any opinions she had on the matter; she knew the spirit would pick up on her reluctance.

“You’ve dedicated your life to preserving your people’s history, Merrill. You’re so close to completing the mirror. I can make it happen, it’s my purpose, you see. My name, Arzu, means ‘Wish.’”

That was all Merrill needed to hear. She knew this was all going to work out just fine. “Alright. But there are some things I need to learn right away. I’m a healer; I have some very ill patients.”

Arzu smiled. “The book is yours, do with it as you will. You’re already a skilled mage, you can handle the spells.” 

Merrill flipped through the book, frowning. “What a pity, Arzu, the agreement must be called off: I can’t read the book, all the spells are in Tevene,” she said, intentionally nonchalant. 

Arzu’s expression was stern. “You question my power? Ha, here, look at it now.” Merrill complied. Her smirk changed to a smile as the runes rearranged themselves on the page.

 _‘Well, Merrill,’_ she told herself, masking her excitement. _‘You now have everything you need to make all your dreams come true.’_

* * *

If Sebastian never saw another ship again, he’d die a happy man. The voyage home from Ostwick was a much different one than what he faced departing Kirkwall. Mostly due to the time of year—autumn was notorious for storms, and this year was no exception. Their ship was tossed about like a toy for almost a week. Sebastian clutched the railing and sighed. The familiar smell of tar, old cabbage, and fish greeted him at the docks. Kirkwall docks, in all its glory. 

A pair of crewmen hauled his trunk onshore. He scanned the pier for a familiar face. He had written Fenris of his estimated arrival, the ship name. He hoped his letter arrived before he did. 

“A wise man once told me that ‘the thing ye seek most is oft right under yer very nose.’”

Sebastian grinned. He’d know that voice anywhere. He turned to find Fenris leaning against a post, covering a chuckle with a cough. Sebastian closed the space between them and threw his arms around his friend. 

“Sweet Andraste, man, ye’re a sight for sore eyes. Let me look at ye.” He held Fenris out at arm’s length, and was—the enthusiasm immediately went out of him. He noticed the dark circles under Fenris’s eyes were far more pronounced, as were the furrows between his brows. The brands almost looked dirty, a strange grayish white-brown. Pain was etched into his friend’s face. 

“Are ye well? Ye look—” Sebastian tried to find a word that wasn’t a synonym of ‘horrible.’ “Ye look a wee bit sallow.”

“Tired,” Fenris replied. “We’ve been busy with Ran’s concerts and preparations for the wedding.” He turned away just a smidge too quickly to completely sell his statement. Fenris’s lies were always true statements artfully wrapped around omissions and holes—that was what made them so convincing. But that little falter was the tell that he wasn’t saying something. 

“I’ll fetch a porter for your trunk, I’m not up for hauling it to Hightown,” Fenris said before he departed. Sebastian pursued him, jostling his elbow.

“What happened? I’m gone for six weeks and ye look half-dead, Fen. Ye never mentioned that in yer letters. And where’s Rana?” 

Fenris made a point to look unaffected. “Home, resting.”

Rana never missed outings, if she could help it. “Is she well?”

“She’s missing her family, and she hasn’t slept well. Neither of us have.” He dug in his coin purse for a silver and gave the porter his instructions. “Between the brands and covering your correspondence, I have no rest, these days.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “I-I’m sorry. Ye never said—”

Fenris shrugged and led the way to Hightown. Sebastian shook his head. The area around the brands glimmered diffusely. He’d never seen the brands do that before. The light had always been confined to the brands, not the area around them. How curious. 

The worrying phenomenon continued through the dinner that Fenris insisted taking him to at the Drunken Dragon. The Dragon was one of Hightown’s respectable taverns, famous for its savory pies. Despite the seemingly cheerful front Fenris put on for Sebastian’s sake, Sebastian knew better. Fenris was very pained, pushing himself through the dinner on sheer willpower.

“Tell me of Ostwick. You mentioned you landed the alliance, yes?” he asked. “That’s good news.” Sebastian forced himself to stop staring and nodded.

“Aye. They accepted the terms we set forth…almost,” he turned back to his steak and onion pie. “I accepted their counterproposal.”

Fenris barely concealed his surprise. “You didn’t mention that in your letter.”

“Couldnae risk someone reading it, in case the letter was intercepted. The Teyrn approached me privately with the proposal, ye see. I’m…” he leaned in, Fenris following suit. “I’m to marry the Teyrn’s daughter.”

Fenris’s fork clattered from his fingers. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Y-You’re marrying the Teyrn of Ostwick’s daughter?”

“I am.” Sebastian stabbed a piece of bacon and apple with his fork. “The Teyrn’s dissolving me betrothal to Flora Harimann as we speak.” Scoffs and sighs escaped his companion. “What?”

“Are you mad? I leave you alone for five minutes and you ruin— _have you any idea how hard I worked to make this campaign happen?_ What were you thinking? Must I do everything?” Fenris exclaimed. 

He wasn’t expecting the outburst. “But, Fen—”

“The Harimanns will never stand for another family taking their place. You know that, Sebastian.”

“ _Of course_ they wouldnae, ye think me a fool? Their allegiance comes with a price; we cannae let them go, for fear of losing our funds. They could also turn our supporters against us. Aye, it’ll cost us dearly, but we must keep them on our side.”

Fenris nodded. “I take it your new ‘friend’ has a plan to deal with this? Or must I come up with it like I have everything else?”

Sebastian ignored the dig. ‘ _He’s in pain,_ ’ he reminded himself. ‘ _He gets snappy when pained._ ’ “The Teyrn said he would still secure their support, buy them off with estates and the like. Blackmail, possibly, I dinnae ken.” The silent glare from across the table practically screamed at him. His confidence wavered. “I-I specifically stated I didnae approve of violence, and he agreed to it.” Fenris rolled his eyes.

“You are incredibly naïve. I can’t tell if it’s endearing or life-threatening,” Fenris said, stabbing his slice of pie. “Probably the latter.”

Sebastian bit back the retort. “I understand yer concern, but I trust the Teyrn—”

Fenris leaned in. “When will you learn these people cannot be trusted? I highly doubt the Teyrn advanced to where he is today by being a peace-loving man.” He washed down his pie with a gulp of wine. “I’ll not be sorry to see Flora go, but…”

Sebastian heaved a sigh. He had hoped against common sense the Teyrn wouldn’t resort to murder, but Fenris had the right of it. Unless the Harimanns were more mercenary than Sebastian thought possible, there was only one way forward, and it didn’t look very rosy for Flora. He took a swig of ale, eyes settling on the table. 

A part of Sebastian, an alarmingly large part, felt it was Flora’s just reward for all the pain and loss her family had caused him. Poetic justice in that she’d never reach the throne her mother had cut such a bloody path to. An actual comfort that, despite it all, Lady Harimann’s wishes would be left unfulfilled. While Sebastian would’ve once been dismayed at such a horrible sentiment—probably would’ve given himself a heavy penance for it—he merely adjusted his grip on his pewter mug, took a sip, and smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title was inspired by one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs, ‘Comfortably Numb,’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FrOQC-zEog
> 
> Fact: The pie mentioned here is a medieval German pie from the 1300s called a Heathen Cake (called a cake despite it being a pie). Ingredients- stew meat, onions, garlic, bacon, carrot, some grated apple and spices, all baked together in a yummy pie. This is another recipe I tested out for the sake of science, and has made its way to our dinner table once or twice. The spice profile is flexible to the baker’s taste, so you can use herbs like rosemary or marjoram, or ‘warm spices’ like cinnamon, coriander and a little nutmeg. The apples and carrots give the pie a bit of sweetness to mix with the savory.  
> Comment below if you’d like the recipe! :)


	16. The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a week early, but I'm too excited not to share. The Harimann-Reid wedding is finally here...and isn't your typical sit-down with mediocre food and small talk. How could it be, with Fenris, Rana, and Marian on the guest list? 
> 
> As always, thank you for your support and comments: I love hearing from you all, your words bring smiles to my face. And a huge thank you to my beta, AnnaLucia. 
> 
> The end notes are a bit longer this chapter, simply because there's so many cool facts about things that happen in the story. And be sure to check out the Youtube link to hear what music Rana sang at the wedding! :)
> 
> Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Despite her relatively young age, Varania considered herself a worldly woman. She lived many lives in her thirty summers, more than most: freedwoman, seamstress, mother, wife, sister, and, unfortunately, beggar and servant. Soon to be a magister’s apprentice, perhaps even become a magister herself, the first elf rising to power in Tevinter. It was a far cry from begging on the streets of Minrathous, but this still made her cringe. Every time Varania shut her eyes, she saw her brother Leto’s face. 

_‘Fenris_ ,’ she reminded herself. ‘ _They call him “Fenris” now. Best get used to it._ ’ Her mind went back to the last time she saw him, as a fifteen-year-old boy trying to fight back his tears when the guards dragged him away. Varania was only seventeen at the time, but that day was forever etched in her memory. Leto had nearly died to win a tourney to earn Varania and their mother’s freedom. The victor could have any wish granted, and so Leto wished his family to be freed, not realizing the consequences. In one breath, she admired his bravery and loyalty, but his well-intended request caused many years of suffering and resentment. Varania and their mother were released, but thrown out into the street with naught but the clothes on their backs. They had nothing, and struggled for years, while Leto—

‘ _Fenris_ ,’ Varania said, chastising her slip. ‘ _Leto “died” when they branded him. He’s Fenris now. Leto’s gone._ ’ 

“You understand what is expected of you once we arrive in Kirkwall?” a stern voice asked. The tall man was turned towards the bay window of the captain’s quarters he’d claimed as his own, hands clasped behind his back. He was almost a full head taller than Varania, and stood with the erect carriage of one born for greatness. Powerful, intimidating, and very cruel, she knew that from experience.

Varania fingered her green calico skirt. “You asked me to write letters to my brother, and I did. I should be free to go—”

The man huffed. “ _No_ , you will act as bait and lure your brother to the meeting place.”

“But that was never part of the agreement.” Her voice faltered as his gray head turned towards her. “Y-You said you would let us go once I reached out to Leto. I _have_. I’ve kept my word; my son and I are free: _you can’t keep us here—_ ”

“ _Fool, you forget who you’re speaking to_ ,” he replied, voice harsh. “…I am a magister: my word is law. I _write_ the laws. I had your husband executed for aiding a fugitive: if you want a different fate for you and your son, you will follow my commands to the letter. Have I made myself clear?” His voice went metallic, as hard and cold as the steel of his eyes.

Magic skittered under her skin, thrumming like a plucked lute string behind her sternum. She took a deep breath to steady herself and nodded, eyes downcast. 

He snapped his fingers and a girl materialized from the corner with a wine goblet. “Our letters were convincing enough to rekindle a bond between you. Fenris is so predictable, when it comes to matters of the heart: once he understands your life hinges on his obedience, he’ll comply. If not for your sake, then for the boy’s. He always had a soft spot for children.”

Varania prayed there were traces of her brother still in this ‘Fenris.’ It was terribly risky to hinge her life on ‘perhaps,’ however. “How will I bear seeing his face the moment he realizes what I’ve done? He’ll never forgive me for betraying him.”

“Ah, yes.” He sipped his wine, watching the waves through the window. “I look forward to that moment and his expression, it will be amusing.”

She balled her fists in her skirt. “And if he should turn on me, before you can subdue him?”

“Then you’ll die, of course. Fenris can have quite the temper.” Varania couldn’t hide the revulsion on her face. He was so flippant with his reply, a monster made flesh. 

He turned towards her, mouth stained from the wine he drank. An overly groomed eyebrow arched at her expression. “Something the matter?” He sneered. 

Varania’s eyes widened. It was too late to hide her disgust. Her heart pounded, her palms went sweaty. “N-No—” 

He leaned in closer, magical energy crackling around him. “Lies, now? Do you feel a need for more punishment?”

She backed away and almost tripped on a chair. “I-I have nothing to say—” 

He lunged and seized her collar. “My patience is nearing its end, Varania,” he whispered in her ear. Cuticle oil and patchouli coated her nostrils. “I’ve waited eight years for this. He took everything I cherished from me, and _he will pay_.”

She struggled when she felt the thrum of magic under his skin. He held her in place and grinned. 

“Please—” she squeaked. She squeezed her eyes shut. “ _P-Please_ —”

He released his lightning spell and sent it coursing through her. A choked moan clawed its way out of her throat. 

“Mark me: I will haul your brother back to Minrathous and make him wish he’d never been born, for all the pain he’s brought me. I _will_ take my due, my family’s deaths _will_ be avenged. Defy me, and I’ll have you keelhauled for aiding a fugitive. Your son can listen to your screams as they drop you into the sea and drag you under.”

He flung her to the floor. Varania writhed in agony, unable to speak, think, move. His shoes and the corner of the captain’s desk flickered in and out of focus. 

“Remove her,” she heard the man say. His words sounded distant, garbled. “No physician shall attend her: she will regret her insolence.” 

“Yes, Magister Danarius.” Unseen hands dragged Varania away, down the corridor to the small cabin she shared with her son. They tossed her on the floor as she shivered from pain and fear. Her little boy ran to her. The lock clicked, shutting them in. 

The tears came, running down the bridge of her nose, dripping to the floor. Varania hated her brother for the wrong he did her, and herself for what she was about to do to him. 

* * *

Starkhavener weddings, Rana learned, were very different from those in Lebanon. The Harimann-Reid affair began nearly a week before the actual wedding date. All the Harimanns, their kin, and a bagpiper gathered to meet the Reids and their entourage at the city gate. Sebastian was an honorary Harimann kinsman, and stood with Rana and Fenris as they and the local guests waited for out-of-towners to arrive. Everyone anticipated the commencement of the festivities. 

The Reids arrived in Kirkwall with a wagon full of wedding gifts, and were unknowingly required to have their goods inspected by the customs officers at the city gates. This included everyone’s baggage and carriages, which resulted in a two-hour delay. Quite inconvenient for the wedding guests, even more so when faced with the bagpiper the Harimanns had hired: the very punctual, and very out of tune bagpiper.

The overly enthusiastic bagpiper started at high noon, right as the twelfth Chantry bell finished ringing. Rana shuddered: she didn’t mind bagpipes, but, when out of tune, they set her teeth on edge, and the man droned on and _on_. 

“Does this mean he’ll end sooner if he started two hours early? He keeps playing the same songs over and over,” Rana whispered to Fenris. He flinched away from her.

“I doubt it,” he replied. They grimaced at a squawked, flat note. When she tried to engage him again, Fenris excused himself, a sour look on his face. 

All through the week’s festivities, Fenris barely acknowledged Rana’s presence, spoke only when necessary. It had been four days since their argument and he _still_ hadn’t apologized. 

_‘He took two hours to decide not to turn me in. He knew how traumatized and terrorized I felt. Why did he take so long to decide? How could he do that to me?’_ These thoughts disturbed her, refused to subside. They kept her awake at night all that week. Even through her music rehearsals for the wedding, she sought an answer that she never received. 

‘ _Just one more day before the wedding,_ ’ she thought while everyone filed behind the Harimanns for yet another Starkhavener tradition. Rana leaned over to Sebastian and jostled his elbow. “I don’t understand,” she said to him in Common, “why is the groom carrying a basket of rocks through Kirkwall?” Fenris slowed his gait, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“It’s the creeling,” Sebastian replied. “The groom shows his strength by carrying a creel full of stones about the village or town. He cannae stop until his bride kisses him.” Fenris concealed his amusement behind a cough. It encouraged Rana. 

“Do they throw rice or almonds at the wedding party? We do in Lebanon,” she said.

Sebastian hesitated, “Well—”

“Not the rocks, right? We aren’t throwing the rocks, are we?” She was being ridiculous, but that was the point. There was another choked snort beside her as Fenris suppressed a laugh. She grinned.

“‘Tis a _wedding,_ not a funeral, lass. We cannae stone the bride and groom.” He shook his head. “Sweet Andraste, I tremble to think what barbarous affair ye’ll have when ye two wed.” 

Her face went hot at the thought of ‘Fenris’ and ‘wedding’ in the same sentence. She stole a glance at her beloved. The pinched expression settled back in as he quickened his pace and left them behind. She stifled the eyeroll.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered that night. Rana rolled out of bed, waving her hand. A tiny flame danced on the candlewick, thanks to the new spell she’d learned studying Merrill’s book. She smiled; Fenris would disapprove of using magic for something so mundane, but she was tired and, frankly, didn’t care. “May as well distract yourself.” 

Rana carefully took out her gown she’d wear to the ceremony. She remembered how excited she was the day Fenris bought it for her. She ran her fingers over the soft black velvet. The silver filigree and beading along the sleeves and neckline glistened in the candlelight. 

She held it up to herself before the mirror. “Lady Reid,” she said, curtseying. “How fine it is to meet you. Oh, why thank you, it’s the latest style in Antiva City. Matching formalwear is all the rage there this season. Isn’t it romantic? Fenris insisted, you know.” The beading on her skirts glittered delightfully as she swayed back and forth. She couldn’t help but feel like a princess in a fairytale. “Why, of course, Lady Reid! I’d love to come pick out gowns with you—” 

There was a knock at the door. “Ran? Are you well? I heard talking.”

Her eyes went wide when the door creaked open. “I—oh, apologies,” he said. His eyes reflected the light in eerie greens. “I was concerned.” His words slowed as he stared at her. “ _Fasta vass_ , that gown looks so beautiful on you, Rana.”

“Well, Fen, I should hope so. You picked it out,” she said with a smile. “You know, we’ll match.”

“Why did I ever let you talk me into it?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s adorable and we’ll be the best dressed couple there.” 

“Or the most ridiculous. That remains to be seen.” 

“Oh, come on. I think you look dashing in your new outfit,” she replied.

He nodded to her. “Well. As lovely as this is, we have an early day tomorrow. I suggest you go to sleep, Lady El-Khoury.” 

She curtseyed, “rest well, my lord.” As he left, she swore there was a smile hiding in his eyes. Rana put her dress aside and returned to bed. She snapped, and the candle extinguished itself. 

Rana rose before dawn the day of the wedding, partly from excitement, but mostly to review. She knew it was of utmost importance to repress her magic, especially that day, so she took the time to go through Merrill’s spell book yet again. 

Three rapid knocks sounded from the door. “Ran, _yalla_. We’ll be late. Your hair appointment is at eight bells, in case you’ve forgotten. The Reids were gracious enough to offer the bride’s stylist; don’t make them regret it.”

She bit her tongue at the dig and held up her book. “I was studying, but thank you for the reminder—”

He turned and left without another word. She could practically see the frost glistening from his footsteps. If this was a preview of the rest of the day, it was going to be interminable.

It was a crisp autumn morning. The wedding party and guests gathered in the square before the Harimann mansion in a cloud of vivid silks and satins. Lebanese and Starkhavener weddings were the same in that regard: everyone wore new formal attire, of the latest fashions and cuts. Fenris looked especially handsome in his long black tunic and turban trimmed in silver scrollwork. 

Rana sighed. Their feud had continued for over a week, and she decided enough was enough. She set her annoyance aside and leaned into Fenris. “I told you you’d put the rest of the men to shame,” she whispered. “Marian can’t stop staring at you.” 

His head snapped to attention. “What? Marian? Where?” Rana bit back the jealousy and nodded to a familiar morose-looking woman with choppy black hair, drowning in drab gray velvet. 

He rolled his eyes. “She couldn’t be more obvious if she tried. Look how miserable she is.”

“Have you ever heard of the pot calling the kettle black?” she asked. Silence. “Never mind. Just pretend you’re enjoying yourself. She’ll get jealous and might leave.” 

His lips pressed into a thin line at ‘pretend you’re enjoying yourself.’ She was tempted to ask him about it, but the damned bagpiper was back, leading the plodding procession to the Chantry. Rana heaved a sigh. Partway through the journey, she reached over to hold Fenris’s hand, only to have him flinch away. Undeterred, she reached over again, and while he initially flinched at the contact, he eventually threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. She turned to him and smiled; it widened to a grin when he smiled back. 

The congregation filed into the Chantry, Rana assuming her predetermined place in the loft. The hymns and antiphons reminded her of Gregorian Chant, so different than the Mass she sang at home. As the service ended, the congregation applauded the departing newlyweds. Rana was surprised, yet pleased, when they turned to the loft and cheered for her. She looked out at the crowd, eyes landing on Fenris and Sebastian. They, too, were looking up to her, pride clear on their smiling faces. She’d just secured her place in Starkhaven as the newest musical sensation. It thrilled her to no end. 

The bagpiper led them back to the Harimanns’ for the wedding feast. Swags of rust and crimson fabric hung from every wall and banister, held in place with posies of gold chrysanthemums. 

“Ye sang well,” a voice said from behind her. “At the Chantry. Ate it up, they did.”

Rana turned and nearly collided into Marian Hawke, who’d already helped herself to an overly full glass of wine. Rana’s stomach clenched. “Thank you,” she replied in Common. “You’re kind to say so.” She made to leave. 

Marian grabbed her arm. “Ye might charm him and the others, but it don’t work on me. I see ye for what ye really are: a silver-tongued witch.”

Rana wrenched her elbow away. “Let go of me.”

“Fenris don’t love ye, he can’t: he’s only with ye because ye bewitched him.” 

Several heads turned at ‘bewitched.’ “There was no ‘bewitching,’” Rana replied. “You’ve been at our house every night for two weeks, alone with him for hours. If he wanted to go back to you then, he certainly would’ve.” 

There was a thrum behind her sternum. Rana’s eyes widened. She couldn’t let this happen in the atrium, there were too many people. She rushed down the hall towards the drawing room, hand at her sternum, heart pounding. 

Marian pursued her. She grabbed Rana by the throat, and slammed her into the wall. “Ye think me stupid? Ye know he won’t come back to me while under yer spell.”

“ _But there is no spell, I tell you._ ” 

Marian bore down on her. “I ought to turn ye in to the Templars for yer filthy Vint conjurin’. Serve ye right, it would,” she hissed.

Panic clawed at Rana’s gut. Templars. Being threatened with Templars, again. “I-I’m not a mage. Let go of me _now,_ ” she said, praying her lie was convincing, trying to push Marian away. “You can’t accuse me—”

“Don’t matter if it’s true or not. Ye took Fen from me, and I haven’t forgotten the wine decanter, either, prig. I’ll have me justice: ye can’t attempt on me life and steal me man without consequence.”

“No,” Rana replied. “I stole nothing. Fenris is his own man, with his own life: he’ll never forgive you once he hears about this. He’ll wring your neck—”

“Ah, ye threatenin’ me now?” 

Rana gathered every ounce of courage and glared back at Marian. “No, it’s not a threat, Marian Hawke. It’s a promise.” 

Marian shoved her into the wall again, turned, and stalked away. “Threatenin’ the Champion of Kirkwall with her witchery. This isn’t over, prig.” 

Rana didn’t stay to hear more. She ran down the hall and ducked into the drawing room, leaning against the door. She held both hands against her heaving chest. 

“Calm down,” she whispered to herself. She was so preoccupied, she never switched to Tevene. “C-Calm down before you do something rash.” She went through every exercise from Merrill’s book again, but she couldn’t concentrate. Rana pounded her fist against the door. “That damned _sharmouta_ , I-I’ll scratch out her eyes and rip out her hair—”

“I tremble to think what poor woman has earned such a fate,” a voice replied. She jumped. There was Fenris, stretched out on the chaise lounge. 

Rana narrowed her eyes at him. “ _Ya Fen!_ Your lover just attacked me in the hall, and you’re lying on a chaise lounge, laughing? If you were with me, this never would’ve happened.”

He sat up. “ _What_ happened? I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

She felt impossibly hot as she stalked across the room and gestured to her neck. “Your Marian. She had me up against the wall by my throat. _She threatened my life; she’s insane, I tell you, and you’re laughing_ —” He seized her hands. His grip felt like iron manacles around her wrists. 

“Rana, I’m so sorry, but please try to calm down—”

She wrenched herself away, chest heaving. The tug behind her sternum became a yank, and the candles in the room blazed. The pillars of flame reduced the candles to stubs drowning in puddles of wax. Their eyes widened as they exchanged looks. 

“Don’t,” she muttered. “Don’t start one of your lectures—” 

“ _Rana El-Khoury, get a hold of yourself._ ” He gently grasped her by the shoulders. “I know you’re frightened and upset, but you _must_ calm down: this isn’t just your life, anymore. It’s both of us.” 

She scoffed. “‘Both of us.’ Tell that to your lover.”

“She. Is. _Not._ My. Lover.”

She broke away. “ _Tell her that, then!_ That madwoman went after me again because of you, and I won’t have it. _This is enough.”_

He nodded. “It is. I’ll tell her.”

“When? _When,_ Fenris?”

He looked very tired. “You realize she could cause a scene if I tell her now? It’s the last thing we need—” 

She threw up her hands. “Unbelievable.”

“You said yourself she’s acting like a madwoman—”

“ _I don’t care_. Ya Fen, what are you waiting for, something to happen? She’s crazed. She frightens me. I’ll make it easy for you: I know Common now, and I can take care of myself. Go back to your Marian: I’m sure you’ll have so much to talk about. You can compare the size of your swords or something.”

His jaw dropped, brands sparking to life. “You would _leave_ me? I don’t even _like_ her, let alone would ever go back to her—”

“You’re miserable with me. You’ve been nothing but a miserable bastard for the past week,” Rana said.

“ _You know why I’m upset with you: That doesn’t disappear overnight.”_

“We’ve already had this conversation, ya Fenris El-Khoury. I won’t hold you back from your happiness: as soon as I get home, I’m packing. I’m not putting my life in peril over this.”

“Rana, please. I’ll take care of Marian—” 

“Too late—”

“ _Wait._ _I am not done speaking._ ” Fenris drew himself to his full height, eyes hard as he leaned in. “I’ve listened to your words, give me the same courtesy and stop interrupting. As soon as we’re done, I’ll go speak with Marian and settle this once and for all. We made a pact for life, Rana El-Khoury, remember? You keep forgetting that I chose you. Stop questioning this, I care nothing for Marian.”

Rana let his words sink in; they immediately calmed her. “Fen, I love that you chose me. I _want_ to be happy, but she scares me.” She reached up and took his face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice small. “For what I did. Fen, I—I cherish you; you know that. I would never hurt you.”

His expression shifted. “Yet you did, with your lies. Rana, if only you would have said something—”

She nodded. “I felt so desperate, I didn’t know what else to do, or what _you_ would do if you knew. You were spending so much time with Mar—”

“Listen, I’m sorry for how I handled Marian. And I’m sorry you were so frightened on the bridge. I, too, was frightened, the feeling was mutual…I’ve fought in two Qunari invasions, and that walk was, by far, the most difficult thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

Rana blinked hard and bit her lip. She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

He scoffed a laugh. “Mark the Chantry calendar: I do believe Rana El-Khoury’s speechless.” He escorted her to the door and opened it. Marian nearly fell into the room, eyes wide, staring at Fenris in disbelief. 

Fenris raised his eyebrow. “Well, I see there’s no need to explain anything, Marian, as you heard every word of it. I’ll only say this to you _once_ , so listen well. If you so much as lift a finger against Rana again, I’ll hang you from the Chantry by your heels. Am I understood?” 

Marian’s eyes filled and her lip trembled. She lingered a moment before she burst into tears and fled down the hall, disappearing into the raucous shouting and dancing in the atrium. 

Fenris wasn’t up for dancing, but it was soon time for cutting the wedding cake, which was elaborately decorated with marzipan and delicate sugarpaste flowers. It was jarringly modern looking, like the cake had somehow fallen through time and space to land in Lowtown, just like Rana had. The fruitcake contained the same warm spice profile found in all other ‘fancy’ foods in Kirkwall. Something to do with the price of cinnamon and pepper, Fenris explained. They were quite expensive here in the South, found on the tables of nobles to show off their wealth. The Harimanns were no exception. 

Fenris gave a taste of cake to Rana. “Blech, Fen. I can taste the pepper,” she said. 

“Well, then. We won’t have that at our ‘barbarous affair of a wedding,’ as Sebastian called it.” 

She nearly dropped her fork and set the plate down before it fell down. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say ‘ _our_ wedding?’”

“I did. But you know there are many things we must attend to, first. Perhaps…next year or so. We can broach the subject later on and see where we stand. Does that suit you?” 

Rana gasped. Fenris laughed, “Well! Twice in one day. Mark the Chantry calendars, indeed: Rana El-Khoury is most certainly speechless, yet again.” He nudged her. “Come on, let’s find Sebastian. It would be good business to have the guests see the three of us together before we leave.”

They were very pleased with the compliments and praise for Rana’s singing. By the positive feedback, it was clear the guests acknowledged Fenris as the right choice for Sebastian’s Commander of his forces. Sebastian couldn’t have been happier. On the way out, they met Varric in the vestibule tying on his deep blue cloak, the one he kept for special occasions.

“Varric! We haven’t seen you for a while,” Fenris said, hiding his exhaustion from his voice as best he could. “I’m glad you came.”

“How could I miss seeing my favorite elf or hear our Songbird sing?” Varric replied, eyes settling to the space between them. “You’ve come a long way, holding hands in public. I was hoping it would turn out that way; Choirboy—er, Sebastian—has kept me posted with the goings on.” 

They quickly let go of each other’s hands; no one ever knew what would end up being Varric Tethras’s novel fodder. “A-Anything new happening with you? You must have something happening. You always do,” Fenris said, gripping his tunic hem. 

“My newest book’s being published, you know.” Anything with ‘book’ piqued Fenris’s interest. 

“Really? What’s it about?”

“You mean _who_ , _who_ is it about, and no spoilers…” The dwarf smirked. “You’ll find out soon enough.” 

That would not do, not at all. Rana and Fenris launched into their protests, much to Varric’s amusement. He merely laughed and shook his head, drawing up his hood. He left, promising to come visit that week, taking his secret with him. 

The moon had risen by the time Rana and Fenris left for home. The party was still going strong, with much drinking and more dancing, but Fenris’s brands had become very inflamed, despite taking pain tinctures numerous times during the day’s festivities. He needed assistance walking home and taking the stairs. Rana plopped him on his bed, unbuttoning his tunic. He waved her hands away. 

“I can do it,” he replied. His stiff fingers fumbled with the buttons, shaking from pain and exertion. “S-Stupid things—” She closed her hand over his.

“Let me help you.” He felt too poorly to protest. 

“Why is it so bad?” Fenris asked. “I don’t understand.” 

She slid his finery off, eyes landing on the brands on his chest; they were barely white, anymore. Perhaps it was the lighting, but they resembled raised scars rather than the striking white tattoos she remembered. Rana eased his sleepshirt over his shoulders, kissed his forehead, and frowned. He was warm, almost too warm. Fenris began to shiver, but Rana removed the thick quilt and blankets, smoothing a thin sheet to cover him. 

It was too soon for another round of pain tinctures. Rana made some cold compresses, keeping him company until he drifted to sleep. She blew out the candle and went to her room, changing for bed. She stared up at the brocade canopy above, clutching the quilt. It seemed Fenris’s condition deteriorated quicker than usual, especially without any physical triggers. Emotional ones, certainly. It had been a stressful and hectic week, and a very busy day, but… he wouldn’t be so affected by the argument, would he? Her eyes widened. Had _she_ caused this?

 _‘Something’s wrong,’_ she thought. _‘Very wrong. I better call on Merrill in the morning.’_

Somewhere between reciting the Rosary for Fenris and the steady drumming of rain on the roof, Rana fell asleep. She dreamt of the hospital again, except this time, no one took her mother or sister away. Her entire family was there, wishing her well and talking to her. If only she could open her eyes and see them. If only she could speak to them. She felt her mother take her hand in hers when—

A shout and a crash sounded down the hall. Rana shot up in bed, ice crackling on the coverlet. She threw her quilt aside and ran to Fenris’s room. “Fen? What—”

Fenris was tangled in a snarl of sheets, nightstand overturned. He frantically clawed at the pain tincture bottle rolling away. Rana righted the candle and kneeled beside him, his head in her lap.

“ _Yi!_ Here,” she said, putting the bottle to his mouth. He arched his back just to breathe. “Ya Fenris, drink.” Swallowing proved difficult; he leaned against her. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His hair was plastered to his perspired forehead. “Ran, I’m so sorry. I feel like a burden.” 

She held him, putting on a brave face she was certain was unconvincing. “Nonsense, Fen. Look how you took care of me. I would do anything for you. Now, save your breath, we have to get you back in bed.” 

Anything that involved the brands was a process, but this was laborious. Fenris could usually get himself to his feet, but that night, he was too weak to stand. The slightest movement sent him into spasms. Rana dragged him onto the bed and righted the nightstand. He couldn’t stay this way: his body was under considerable stress; his breathing was labored. And the more stressed Fenris was, the more anxious he became. She was concerned he could have an anxiety attack on top of the pain and was unsure he could take much more. A surge of dread overcame her. She needed to get help immediately. 

“Try to rest, Fen. I’ll be right back,” she said.

Rana ran to the front door, Fenris’s ragged breath was all she could think of. The wind ripped the wooden door from her hands, as an autumn squall was blowing in from the sea. It didn’t matter, Rana had no time to waste. Rain fell in sheets as she ran as fast as she could to the Chantry. Luck wasn’t with her: the front door was locked. She peered out into the storm, shivering. The east wind was bitingly cold, the rain pounding the pavement. She was already soaked through, and the side door had no awning or roof over it. By the time the night monitor answered the door, Rana was numb. 

“Maker, child,” the Sister cried, ushering her in. “Whatever possessed you to go out in such weather? You’re chilled to the bone.” 

Rana couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. “S-Sebastian,” she replied. “I need Sebastian.”

“Brother Vael is—” 

Rana hastily thanked her and took the stairs two at a time. “Sebastian,” she said, pounding on his door, “Sebastian, I need you. It’s an emergency.” There was a shuffling behind the door, a half-asleep mumble as he opened the door, hand shielding the candleflame from the draft.

“Wha—Rana? What are ye doing here at this hour? And in yer _chemise_ , no less?” His eyes drifted down to the sopping nightgown clinging to her bosom and averted his gaze. 

Rana folded her arms across her chest. She’d left the house in such a hurry, she’d forgotten to change or take her cloak. “I-It’s Fen,” she said. “The brands are worse. I’m frightened. Please fetch Merrill, I must go back to him.” She stumbled for the stairs, but Sebastian caught her shoulder.

“Ye’re shivering with cold; ye cannae travel about in that state. Dry off a bit, ye’re standing in a lake.”

She flinched away. “But he can hardly breathe, _please_. _Yalla_.” 

He raked his hand through his hair. “Let me dress. And here.” He handed her a heavy wool cloak. “Wear this. I’ll never hear the end of it if ye catch yer death.” 

It pooled and dragged on the floor, but she was grateful for the warmth. She nodded her thanks and ran down the stairs into the howling night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact I: Keelhauling is a naval punishment where a person is dropped into the sea (often with a weight around their feet), dragged through the water under the ship, and then hauled up on the other side. Rinse and repeat until the victim drowns or bleeds out from scraping the barnacles on the underside. 
> 
> Fact II: Bagpipes didn’t originate in Scotland: a sculpture of bagpipes has been found in Turkey, dating from 1000 BC. Through trade, these traveled around the Mediterranean to Ancient Greece and Rome. The Roman military used them on campaign, bringing them to Britain and, eventually, Scotland.  
> The bagpipe was a major part of the Scottish Highlander culture, used in both celebrations and for war. After the Jacobite uprising and the Battle of Culloden in 1746 (fellow ‘Outlander’ fans will recognize that very important battle), bagpipes were banned as ‘instruments of war.’ There are no records of prosecutions for breaking such a law, though, which suggest the law wasn’t enforced. Bagpipes are traditional and still popular for Scottish weddings and celebrations.
> 
> Fact III: Marzipan and sugarpaste were highlights at royal feasts due to the astronomical cost of sugar. They were molded into all sorts of shapes, including fruits, flowers, animals, and even buildings or family crests.
> 
> Fact IV: The medieval recipe for fruitcake is an Italian recipe called ‘pan forte,’ or literally ‘strong bread.’ It calls for honey, cinnamon, nutmeg, and pepper, to have a sweet and spicy profile. 
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> 'Branle des cheveaux:' https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bn8O00xTMc
> 
> This piece, hailing from France, was first published in 1589. As Orlesian fashion and culture is prominent in Starkhaven--according to Sebastian, you can't swing a dead cat in Starkhaven without hitting an Orlesian--this would be a perfect example of a dance song featured at a Starkhavener wedding.
> 
> Rana’s piece at the wedding: “O virtus sapientiae,” by Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TsaHn2kcGc
> 
> So this piece isn’t technically the Chant of Light. I’ve searched high and low, but have only found “The Dawn Will Come” as the only Thedosian hymn with music, which wasn’t very wedding-ish. So I improvised a bit: the Chantry has mostly Sisters, and would thus have a female choir. Rana learned the Chant and was featured as a soloist, as the other Sisters sang organ behind her.  
> Hildegard von Bingen is a celebrated and revered medieval composer, abbess, theologian, herbalist, and mystic. She was so respected that kings and Popes sought out her council. Unlike Gregorian Chant, her text informs the melody, dictating the rise and fall of the music. She often used organ—vocal lines that sustained one pitch, much like a pipe organ—to not only keep singers in tune, but also create a sense of community.  
> This piece is an antiphon to Divine Wisdom, praising it as it encircles and embraces everything with a life-giving path (direct paraphrase from the Latin). It’s so amazing that this is from the 1100s!


	17. Hanging By A Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. And a huge thank you to you all, my lovelies, for your support, comments, and love. Sending you virtual hugs and cookies :)
> 
> I have for you a piece I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter, to help get in the mood. Youtube link in the notes below. Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Merrill heaved a sigh and pulled her tattered blanket closer around her shoulders. It was a horrible night—the wind drove the rain in through the shutters. They quaked under the pelting rain. Merrill could smell the salt from the water washing over the seawall, wet plaster from the leaky shutters and roof. She hated nights like this; she hated working on the mirror on nights like this, even though it was a relic from her heritage She felt obliged to restore and study it. For years, the mirror was reflection-less, glowering at her from the corner, but now? Now that Arzu was assisting her? She could feel eyes watching her from behind the glass, a nagging feeling that woke her at night. The magical energy radiated off of it in pulsing waves. She’d taken to covering it with a tarp, just to get to sleep—

Merrill jumped as the front door shook. “Merrill,” a muffled voice cried. “Merrill, are ye up?”

Merrill took up a candle and scalpel and crept to the door. “Who’s there?” she asked. “I’ll not open the door unless I know—”

“Sweet Andraste, I’ll blow clear to Starkhaven, woman. Open the damned door.”

She unlatched the door, the wind snatching it from her fingers. It smashed into the wall with a crash, rain whipping off and splashing her. Sebastian strode in on a cloud of rain and spray, cloak sopping.

“Sebastian? W-What are you doing here at this hour?” She wrapped her blanket even closer to hide her threadbare tunic.

Sebastian pushed back his hood, shivering. “It’s Fenris. He’s in a bad way. Rana’s asked me to fetch ye.”

Her eyes went wide. She knew this day would eventually come, but so soon? Something must have happened to upset him and expedite the process. She ran across the room to the red book, flipping to the old canvas strip she used as a bookmark. ‘Potio Chela,’ the ornate script said at the top of the page. Useful to draw poisons or toxins out of the body and blood. She scanned the ingredient list and stacked the appropriate jars in the medicine kit.

“Did she tell you symptoms?” she asked.

“He couldnae breathe—”

Lung herbs, antispasmodics. She mentally ran through her inventory. Mullein, stinging nettle, coltsfoot, wood betony. She put them in the medicine and gathered kidney and liver tonics.

She slipped the red book back into the bag of salt and collected her bottles of dandelion root and thistle. Horseradish, peppermint, hydrangea, cleavers. Mineral ashes. The poultices and tonics she’d made beforehand. Merrill shook her precious bottle of gold ash—it cost almost an entire week’s budget at the alchemist’s. She stuffed several reference books in her bag, tied on her cloak, and nodded to Sebastian.

“You have the leeches?”

Sebastian stopped midstep. “What?”

She rolled her eyes and carefully wrapped a giant jar with a kitchen towel. “Guard this with your life. They’re the key to saving him.” With that, she blew out her candle and stepped into the night.

If Merrill had not had braced herself against the door and Sebastian, she would’ve blown over. She struggled with her lock and latch, now slippery from the rain. The wind hurled harbor water over the seawall at her. Merrill clutched her baskets and bags, hurrying to the Lowtown stairs, wishing that spells could control the weather.

The Hightown-Lowtown bridge was treacherous, swinging and bucking over the harbor. Merrill and Sebastian cautiously took each step, inching their way forward. By the time they reached Fenris’s house, both were shivering and soaked through. Merrill couldn’t feel her feet.

“Rana,” Sebastian called across the atrium. They hung their cloaks on the hooks in the vestibule. “Rana, I’ve brought Merrill.” 

The house was eerily silent. A very pale, frightened-looking Rana met them at the bedroom door. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, handing them towels and dry clothes to change into. She showed Merrill her bedroom to use for privacy. “He’s burning up with fever, not breathing well, a-and he hasn’t kept down anything I’ve given him—”

That was discouraging. Merrill washed up at the basin while observing Fenris on the bed. “I’ll need hot water and bandages, Sebastian. Rana, get me the bottle labeled ‘chela,’ please.”

She bit her lip. Fenris’s rapid breaths rasped and rattled like dry bones. Even if his eyes ricocheted under his lids, she knew he wasn’t sleeping. He twitched and winced too much for that. There was a nudge at her shoulder; Rana handed her the bottle she requested. Merrill nodded her thanks and meted out her dose. As expected, Fenris choked and struggled to swallow, even though he was propped on pillows.

Her diagnostic spell showed her exactly what she’d feared: the lyrium had leached from the brands into his blood and tissue in many places. Fenris screamed in agony as the spell lit the lyrium inside him, his flesh glowing an eerie pale blue. Merrill sighed. Chela and the mineral ashes would pull the lyrium out of the tissue, but it wouldn’t be enough, she’d need magical intervention. She took a deep breath to steady herself and drew the lyrium to the surface, causing it to pool under the skin like a bruise. Ignoring Fenris’s shrieks as best as she could, Merrill fished a leech from her jar and delicately held it to the brand. It struggled to latch on before twisting away.

Her stomach cramped. This was _not_ part of the plan.

Sebastian clattered in with a pot of water for the fire, Rana running in behind him. “What in the Maker’s name are ye doing to him? They can hear him clear to Starkhaven.”

They could. Between Fenris’s worsened condition and his shrieks of pain, Merrill almost lost her nerve. ‘ _Fear won’t save him,_ ’ she reminded herself. ‘ _Steady hands will._ ’ She steeled herself against the shouts and administered a dose of blood purifiers to prevent more poison leaching into his blood.

“You have to help him. _Please,_ ” Rana shouted over the screaming. She hid her face in her hands. “Make it stop, I beg you. He’s suffering.”

Merrill flipped through a reference book. A numbing spell jumped out at her. She stretched her hands and muttered the words under her breath; the screams devolved into whimpers. Fenris eventually stared ahead, eyes seeing nothing in particular. His head lolled on his pillow. The relief was palpable.

“It’s not good,” Merrill said quietly. “The leeches aren’t biting.”

Their eyes went wide. “What? Why?” they asked simultaneously.

“The brands are too thick for them to bite through, I think. Here.” She slit a tiny section with her scalpel. Fenris moaned and flinched. Yellow, bloody slime coated the blade. “They’re coated in this.”

Sebastian’s face went white. “Sweet Andraste, preserve us.”

“What is it?” Rana asked. Her voice quavered. “Infection?”

“I don’t think so. It would smell putrid if it was, and the skin around the brands would be even more raised and inflamed. This seems more of a barrier; I’ve seen this on wounds if they heal badly.” She rushed across the room to her herbology book. “My treatment plan must change; I must first break this down before drawing the lyrium out. Here.” She flipped towards the back. “Rock rose tincture will help break this down. I have some, but nowhere enough, if all the brands are like this.”

“Where can I find it?” Sebastian asked. “I’ll go right now. The sun will soon rise.” She blinked at him.

“But it’s a tempest out there—”

“I love him like a brother.” He was determined to go, Merrill knew. Once Sebastian set his mind to something, he’d not rest until he accomplished it. He and Fenris were so alike in that way.

“The cliffs on the Wounded Coast; it’s fairly common there. I need as much as you can carry back. You know these brands cover most of his body. I can use all of it: stems, leaves, everything, as soon as possible.”

“I’ll go see if we have any in the garden,” Rana offered. “I think we do.” She left before Merrill could comment, grateful she could finally do more than watch.

Sebastian nodded. “I’ll be back before noon.” He paused at the door. “Merrill? I couldnae say goodbye when me family died. I cannae bear if it happened again with Fen, I see how serious this is.” His request was clear: ‘don’t let him die while I’m gone.’e

“I can make no promises, but I’ll do all I can,” she said. It was the best she could offer, given the circumstances. Merrill went to the banister, watching him rush down the stairs and hurry across the atrium. The wind howled as the rain poured in through a leak in the ceiling. Rana had rolled an old barrel there to catch the water; Merrill wrapped her arms around herself, listening to the rain splash into the barrel. It soothed her worry over what she knew could transpire in the next few days. She prayed Sebastian would return quickly and safely, for she feared it was already too late.

* * *

Sebastian drew his cloak closer and hurried to the Chantry. As much as he wanted to leave straight away to find the herbs, it would’ve been madness to leave without at least a weapon and tools. Wearing his armor in this downpour would be nothing short of foolish, so he opted for his thickest gambeson. It would offer some protection, at least. He knocked on the side door, shifting from one foot to the other. Where was the night monitor? His hood grew heavier and heavier from the rain. Soon, it would be sodden and no use to him at all—

“ _Where have you been?_ ” Grand Cleric Elthina asked, answering the door. She pulled Sebastian over the threshold. “There’s been a murder the next street over, we heard the screams from here.”

“Yer Grace, there’s no time. Me best friend, Fenris, is dying. I need to fetch herbs for him.”

“But the rain, Sebastian; how will you travel on a night like this? And there’s a murderer about—”

“That was him screaming from the agony, Yer Grace.”

Elthina paled, visibly startled. “W-What herb? We may have it here.”

“Rock rose. I need the leaves, stems, all of it.” She nodded.

“Ah, yes. _Cistus incanus_ , the Tevinters call it. We have a small bush in the garden. If you need more, then take a bushel basket from the storeroom.”

He dragged his gambeson on. “I thank ye, Yer Grace.”

“I’ll have the sisters bring the herb and send food along. Where does Fenris live?”

“The, erm…the next street over, old house covered in ivy.”

“Take my horse from the city stables,” Elthina said, following him downstairs. “I know you don’t have one yourself.” He nodded his thanks and gathered extra rope to bundle with.

“May the Maker keep you safe, Sebastian. I’ll be praying for you.”

“Me thanks to ye.” He took a deep breath and stumbled out into the storm, wishing he didn’t have to face the Hightown-Lowtown bridge again. He tied his basket to his back and held on for dear life. “Damned _dreich_ weather,” he muttered. “Wet, miserable bastard of a night—Sweet Andraste, I’ll be sick from all this swinging.” His feet slipped on the wet wood; he very nearly tumbled over the side into the harbor. 

He was so grateful to finally crawl off that bloody bridge. He wobbled to an overhanging roof, huddling against the wall. The wind ripped through his cloak, piercing him with cold. “Come on,” he whispered through shivering teeth. “You’ll not gather any plants hugging a wall.”

Every staggering step was agony—the wind threw up frigid waves and spray from the sea—but he eventually made it through Lowtown unscathed. The inclement weather meant the thugs and bandits weren’t out, which was nothing short of a blessing. Sebastian made his way to the city gate.

“Who goes there?” An officer cried, peering out the gate house, lantern thrust outside the window. “Approach and show yourself. And what’s in that basket?”

Sebastian was all too happy to comply; the gate house had a proper roof over the window and door. He was grateful to get out of the rain and wind. “Rope, naught else.” He held up the item in question. “I have Chantry business outside the city.”

“ _Business?_ In _this_ weather? The road’s washed out.” The guardsman turned to close the window.

“I’m Brother Sebastian Vael, and I told ye I have important Chantry business—”

Much to his relief, the guardsman popped back inside the gatehouse, closing the shutters. The portcullis at the gate rose. “May the Maker bless and guide your steps, Brother,” he said.

Sebastian pulled up his sopping hood. “Same to ye.” He made his way to the stables. After several minutes spent convincing the grumpy, still-sleepy stablemaster that the Grand Cleric had indeed lent him her horse, he saddled and mounted up.

“Maker, let there be some rock rose nearby,” he prayed. “For my sake as well as Fen’s.”

* * *

If she kept moving, she’d be alright. That was what Rana told herself as she assisted Merrill. She’d found some rock rose in the garden, on the far wall near the abandoned part of the house. Armed with her garden knife and Fenris’s old leather gauntlets, she hacked at the stems and filled a laundry hamper with rock rose boughs. Once again, she was sopping wet, even through her cloak. She brought her basket upstairs.

“Oh good, you found some,” Merrill said. “It’s rather woody and old, but it’s better than nothing. Wash and chop, please. We need to make this tincture strong. Do you have cheesecloth? Makes cleaning up easier.”

They did have cheesecloth, somewhere. Rana hurried to the kitchen and found the bolt of loosely woven cotton in the drawer where they kept the tablecloths. It was classic Fenris: he knew no boundaries when it came to buying her presents and supplies. He might rarely voice his affection, but he showed it in other ways… one of them being him buying mass quantities of whatever she desired. She brought it back upstairs and cleared a section of the table. Merrill strained her tinctures and administered another round to their patient. Fenris coughed and spluttered. He coughed so hard, he retched before falling back onto the pillows.

“Stop it,” Fenris muttered. The bed frame creaked and fabric rustled. “Leave me alone _._ ”

Rana heard Merrill fill a cup with what were no doubt more tinctures. “Fenris, you need to take this. It’ll soak up the lyrium—”

He wheezed and struggled. “ _Leave me alone!_ ”

Rana turned. Fenris groaned and batted Merrill’s hands away as she put the mug to his lips. His groan became a shout when she took a handful of hair and forced him to drink.

“What are you doing to him? Stop it,” Rana cried. “He’s panicking.”

“He’s delirious,” Merrill said. “If I don’t make him take it, he’ll die. He has a fever from the lyrium; I need that tincture.”

She forced herself to block out Fenris’s cries for help. Rana’s gloved hand went to her sternum at another bout of wailing. “Let me take over,” she said. “I can calm him down.”

“I have to control the fever and the pain. Requires magic.”

“But—” There was no broaching an alternative in Merrill’s expression. Rana turned back to her task, chopping as quickly as she could before tying everything up in her cheesecloth. She dunked it in the pot and prodded it with her spoon. Her hands shook so badly, the spoon almost fell into the tincture. Magic thrummed under her skin. The screams drove her to distraction. It was more than she could bear.

“Let me,” she said, crossing the room to Merrill. “He’s not responding to Common. Let me try Tevene.” 

Merrill looked to him, then back to Rana. “I’ll prepare the rest of the chela,” she said. “Try to get him to drink water, if you can. Magic seems to make it worse.”

Rana nodded, pulling a chair up. His eyes were unfocused, staring at an indeterminate place on the ceiling. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. 

“Ya Fen, I’m here,” she said in Tevene. He stirred; the slightest movement sent the brands into spasm. He strained to look at her from his current position. 

“Ran?” He whispered. He went to hold her hand and flinched away, crying out in pain. “Ran.”

She stroked his hair and held some water to his lips. “Shh, I’m here, Fen. You’re safe, don’t worry. I’m here. Drink.”

“I can’t breathe,” he whispered.

“I know. We’re making you something to help.”

Her reassurances didn’t help. Every time Merrill came to offer another round of medicine, he’d flinch away and call out for Rana. No amount of reassurances on her part calmed him. He clawed at the covers and screamed for her through Merrill’s examination, even as Rana stood at his bedside. She pressed her hands into her sternum, suppressing the magic within her. 

“Can’t you sedate him?” she asked Merrill. “This is unbearable.” If Rana pressed any harder on her sternum, she’d give herself a bruise, she was sure of it. 

“I already have. This is _with_ sedation.”

Rana stared at her, heart in her throat. “No,” she managed to choke out. “N-No, this can’t be. We must _save_ him. _Do whatever it takes—_ ” Her tongue couldn’t keep up with her mind, spiraling towards a single, horrible truth she couldn’t face.

Merrill’s look of pity turned her stomach. “Rana. We’ll use the rock rose you found, but if Sebastian doesn’t return soon—”

Pins pricked her eyes. Her stomach dropped somewhere into the cellar; her knees went weak. Rana hastily excused herself and wobbled out into hall. She slid down the wall, trembling. Magic tugged behind her sternum, sending a swath of ice up her wrists and arms. Tears welled and rolled down her cheeks. Rana went to brush them away, but there was nothing but ice frozen to her skin.

Fenris was dying.

0o0o0o

Sebastian attempted navigating the muddy, slippery coastal road, urging his horse towards the higher ground. Rain pelted him like pebbles borne on the wind. The clouds shrouded the moon and stars, leaving him with nothing but a ridiculously dim lantern. He sighed. This was hopeless; not only was it impossible to move forward, the horse could injure itself in the mud. He dismounted and led the way on foot, tramping through mud puddles and ruts. His foot slipped and he nearly fell face-first into the jagged cliffs. 

“Sweet Andraste,” he muttered, clutching his chest as he caught his breath. Every step threatened to throw his legs out from beneath him, send him careening either into the rocks or the sea. It was too treacherous for the horse; much to his chagrin, he tied the reins to an outcropping and took down the basket. He staggered onward to the nearest shrub.

“Please let this be rock rose,” he prayed. He juggled his lantern and held it close to the leaves. No. Not rock rose. He cursed under his breath, pushing his soaked hood out of his face. There were other shrubs, none of which matched Merrill’s reference book. He scoured the entire area and found nothing. He screamed in frustration.

“How am I to tell what it is without the fecking flower?” he shouted to the sky. “I’ve given me life to Ye, and Ye mock me with an impossible task. What am I to do?”

A bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, as though in answer. Sebastian pushed his hood from his eyes. There, down near the rocks. It resembled the same shape of bush from Merrill’s book. He pulled his foot from the ankle-deep mud and plodded towards the ledge. He slipped, falling to his knees. Onward Sebastian pressed, struggling to right himself. Feet slipping off the trail, loose rocks tumbling down, gloves caked in mud. The lantern was practically useless. He held it up to the shrub before him. The sun was finally rising, praise the Maker.

“Dense leaves, red stem,” he whispered. Hope surged within him. Sebastian took off his glove and touched the leaves. Fuzzy, tapered, just like Merrill’s book had described. He gasped from joy. “Praise Him,” he said, unsheathing his knife. He hacked and packed the boughs down in his bushel basket until it filled.

“There’s another one, I think,” Sebastian cried. He leaned towards the shrub, balancing on a shale ledge. He frowned in concentration. Almost there, damn it. If his arm was just _that_ much longer, he’d reach it, and—

Several things registered first. His ankle rolling. His leg bowed from beneath him, he fell out towards the sea. Fear spiked through him as his hands grasped for something to hold on to and met nothing. His shoulder smashed into cliff face. Mud, rock, wet leaves stuck to him as he tumbled down the side. He grunting as the rocks knocked the breath out of him. His fingers bled from his grasping for stony handholds. The world was a blur of black and grays. Rain. The sea crashing beneath him.

This was it, he told himself. This was how he’d die. Not on the battlefield, reclaiming his birthright. Not in his bed as an old man who’d served his Maker and his country. No friends, family. No one. Just him, the storm, and the sea. He couldn’t even say goodbye to Fenris—

He plummeted through a thicket, the slick black of wet stone glowering up at him. Closer and closer it came, until it consumed him completely and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my beta, AnnaLucia (AKA Mom), has been an herbalist for almost 40 years, and helped make the herbal program mentioned in this chapter. She said if Fen was her client, she would use these herbs. Cistus incanus, for example, is scientifically proven to break down biofilms and is antibacterial/fungal. We used it here to break down the biofilms inside the brands. 
> 
> I based Fenris buying mass-quantities of whatever Rana needs, on my Dad. If my mom asks for a cake mix, Dad will bring, I kid you not, eleven. One in each flavor at the store. Another way of him showing affection.
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> 'Someone is Watching,' from "Anna Karenina:" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGqZ-lRD4Lg  
> This piece is just so SAD! It's full of longing, heartbreak, tension, angst: it's the music when Rana realizes Fenris is dying. It's his hopelessness as Sebastian looks for rock rose. The piece doesn't resolve at the end, leaving things unresolved and no closure as Sebastian falls down the cliff face in a literal cliffhanger.


	18. Living a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was inhuman, that sound, more like an animal than the man she loved. In a feat of mental fortitude, Merrill ignored the screams and carried on, speaking softly in Old Tevene. The words seemed to agitate Fenris further. He shrieked, fists balled into the sheets. Most words he uttered were too feral for Rana to make out, others, she wished she hadn’t understood.
> 
> “Kill me,” he begged Rana in Tevene, “Mistress, please, make it stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to AnnaLucia, and hugs to you all, my readers. Thank you for your continued support, I love you all <3

Rana poured the same boiling rockrose tincture from one pot to another. It had to cool before they could use it for Fenris, and while Rana didn’t mind the distraction pouring afforded, she was getting antsy. Impatient, as the damned stuff took forever to cool. 

‘ _I could always use magic_ ,’ she thought. ‘ _A mild Frost spell would cool it right down._ ’ 

Rana could hear Fenris shouting ‘ _don’t you dare_ ’ in her head. She huffed and continued sloshing from one pan to the other, yearning for a refrigerator or, at least, some ice. “The tincture is finally ready,” Rana said. 

“Good. Give it to me, please,” Merrill replied. “We’ll start near the heart. Take off his sleepshirt.” Rana could see the fatigue on Merrill’s face. She had a new respect for the woman’s care, stamina, and knowledge of botanicals. 

Rana carefully carried the tincture over to the bed. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Fenris, heartbroken by how much he was suffering. He arched his back to breathe, hair stuck to his perspired brow. She gently fished his arms through the sleeves and tugged the shirt over his head, stepping out of Merrill’s way.

‘ _Alright, ya Rana El-Khoury,_ ’ she told herself. ‘ _Stay. Calm. You can do this. You_ have _to do this, for Fen.’_ She remembered her sister being gravely ill, and how her mother had been amazingly calm through it all. Rana realized just how intentional her mother’s behavior was. 

“Fetch the leech jar on the table,” Merrill said. “When I give the signal, put a leech on the brand.” 

Rana retrieved the glass jar, forcing herself not to look at the contents. She hated worms and squirmy things; _wet,_ squirmy things least of all. She actually had to _touch_ them, fishing leeches out of that jar with her _hands_ , because medical tongs would be too much to ask for, of course. They couldn’t have medical tongs, or hospitals, or even damned doctors in this backwards place. Just Merrill, Rana, and those wet, squirmy bloodsuckers at 3 in the morning or some ungodly hour. Rana gagged.

“What?” Merrill asked. “What’s wrong?” 

Rana could taste that God-awful peppery fruitcake in the back of her throat. “The le-leeches, I—”She sloshed some of the leeches out into a shallow bowl and turned away. She made three valiant attempts to pick up a leech, and every time, her stomach flipped. There was no way in heaven or earth she could touch those disgusting things. Her eyes lighted on Fenris’s gauntlets on the table. She rounded the bed and dragged the thick leather gloves on. 

If they were home in Beirut, her father would’ve had the finest surgeons and specialists at hand to treat Fenris at a hospital. How she wished for sterile instruments, antibiotics, anesthetics, and _hygiene—_ Rana did what she could for that, boiling all the instruments while Merrill readied more tinctures. She ensured Merrill washed her hands well before beginning her work. It was the best they could manage, given the circumstances. 

Merrill submerged what looked like a hollow bird’s bone into her rock rose potion, filling the bladder attached to it. She gently stabbed a brand on Fenris’s chest and squeezed. A syringe in such a barbaric place as Kirkwall? Rana would’ve been impressed, had Fenris not screamed. 

It was inhuman, that sound, more like an animal than the man she loved. In a feat of mental fortitude, Merrill ignored the screams and carried on, speaking softly in Old Tevene.  
He shrieked, fists balled into the sheets. Most words he uttered were too feral for Rana to make out, others, she wished she hadn’t understood.

“Kill me,” he begged Rana in Tevene, “Mistress, please, make it stop.” Not only did he not recognize her, but he called her the very name he hated most: ‘mistress.’ Was it a memory, or was he so delirious, he thought himself in Minrathous?

“Fen,” she said, trying to be heard over the screaming. “Ya Fenris El-Khoury, look at me. _Look_ at me—”

He was in another world. Fenris stared right through her, begging for a death that wouldn’t come, addressing people who were not there. Danarius and his assistants—they made phantom appearances at the foot of the bed. No amount of sedatives or sleep remedies kept Fenris under as the pain and panic continued to wake him and sent him into spasms. Rana had never seen a seizure but feared that was what she was witnessing. It was more than Rana could bear. Her knees went weak.

Merrill cleared her throat and gave the nod. Rana carefully placed a leech on the raised bruise, a difficult task, wearing thick, clumsy gloves. Much to their relief, the leech latched on. 

“Another,” Merrill instructed. “And fill another jar with vodka; the leeches must be disposed of once they’re done.” 

The word ‘done,’ Rana learned, meant ‘dead,’ due to the lethal lyrium-blood. The leeches dropped off prematurely, writhing before they stilled. It made her stomach flip, but the method was successful. Three leeches, and they’d drained the last of the lyrium from the brand over his heart, no longer than Rana’s palm. She and Merrill exchanged looks. All that, for four inches. 

Rana grimaced, eyeing the depleted pot of tincture they had made. There had been just a small amount of rock rose in the garden, which, unfortunately, did not yield much remedy. “How could we have used so much already?” she asked Merrill. 

Sebastian was their only hope, and he’d been gone for hours now. The Chantry bells rang nine times. The two women exchanged looks, eyes widened. A surge of fear shot through Rana’s body: Sebastian should’ve returned hours ago. 

“Merrill, we’ve lost track of time. Where is Sebastian? What if something happened to him? God, what—” 

Her words were cut short by Fenris’s screams. Merrill had injected another segment of the brands. Rana turned her attention back to Fenris, who had once again fainted from the pain. Foreboding enveloped her like a shroud. He twitched several times, eyes still open and upturned to the ceiling. 

She waited until he stirred again. “You’re safe, dear,” speaking as calmly as she could. He responded somewhat better to Tevene, although he was barely lucid, at that point. 

“I beg you: let me die, they will take me back to Master,” he whispered.

“No. No, Fen, I’m here. I love you, and won’t let you die,” she replied. He stretched his trembling hand to her; even so ill, his grip was undeniably strong. 

Rana stared at him. He was the very picture of persuasion: that wheedling look he’d wear to coax her into singing his favorite song or making his favorite meal. The Puppy Eyes, she deemed it. He was giving her puppy eyes to let him die, so Danarius wouldn’t have him. She blinked back tears.

Despite her trembling and exhaustion, she softly sang all his favorite songs, and all she remembered her mother singing to her. Fenris finally recognized her, at least, knew where he was. He seemed reassured that she wouldn’t sell him to slavers or send him to Minrathous.

“Thank God,” she sighed to herself. Between his suffering and the leeches, she couldn’t take much more. 

At Merrill’s signal, Rana placed the next leech. She forced herself not to think on it, on how undeniably serious the situation was. The rain still hammered the roof, the wind whistled in the shutters. Rana closed her aching eyes and wept.

What happened to Sebastian? _Where_ was he with that rock rose? 

* * *

Sebastian shifted his weight slightly, a wave of pain lanced through him. Sensations trickled in; the cold, wet stone sucked the heat out of him. His soaked hood drooped and clung to his skin. His left arm throbbed up to his shoulder and into his chest, and his head spun at the slightest movement.

“Sweet Andraste,” he moaned. “Am I dead?”

From the pain shooting through his body, he knew he wasn’t. He forced himself onto his side and gasped; he was dangerously close to the edge. Sebastian peered over the ledge. He found himself on a sheer cliff with the churning gray sea below. He couldn’t tell what was louder, the pouring rain, the waves crashing onto the rocks, or the pounding in his head. He inched himself away, until his back was against the cliff face. He was terrified, realizing there was no obvious way back up to the road, unable to climb with a broken arm and shoulder. The soil had turned to thick mud. Sebastian was stranded, freezing in the cold rain, barely able to move. Before the panic set in, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, head spinning at the movement. He stared out at the angry sea, fighting back tears. 

‘ _Fenris could be dying,_ ’ he thought, ‘ _and it would be all me fault_.’

* * *

Rana distracted herself, applying cold compresses to Fenris’s forehead. It was well past noon, and Sebastian had still not returned. A Chantry sister arrived sometime during the morning with a basket of more rock rose and foodstuffs. Rana was immensely grateful for the soup, which she continued to offer Merrill as they worked. But there was only enough rock rose for another small kettleful of tincture and that was used up hours ago. 

Rana’s eyes settled on the steady rise and fall of Fenris’s chest, relieved to see his respiration more even. He had passed out from exhaustion, but she continued to check his breathing. The moment she looked away, she feared, would be the moment he’d—

 _‘Don’t even think it,_ ’ she told herself. ‘ _Don’t even go there._ ’ 

She attempted yet another Rosary. She didn’t know what prayers Merrill was saying across the room—Rana assumed they were Elvhen. Her mind kept drifting to Sebastian. She couldn’t wait any longer and jumped from her seat. 

“I’m going to go find Sebastian,” she announced. “This isn’t right. Something’s definitely happened.”

Merrill looked up from her latest batch of blood detoxifiers. “The rain just let up; no doubt travel’s slow. Give him more time.”

“We’ve given him two hours more, Merrill: it’ll be dark soon.” Rana rushed to her bedroom to change into warm clothing, realizing she never changed out of her wet nightgown. Nausea continued to claw around inside her. Was it from lack of sleep, the leeches, or suppressing her magic so long? She had no idea, but it didn’t matter. Her eyes fell longingly to her bed, but she cast the thought aside. Something _had_ happened, Rana was sure of it. She pulled on her wool leggings and finished lacing her tall, sturdy boots. 

A knock interrupted her. “Rana, I can’t let you go,” Merrill said from the door. 

She rolled her eyes and pulled her hood over her disheveled braid. “You’ll have to,” she replied, “I’m going.”

“You don’t know the Coast: it’s dangerous, and crawling with bandits—”

“I can’t stand by and watch Fenris die for lack of medicine.” 

“How will you defend yourself, hm? You’re a _bard_ , not a warrior. Do you even know how to use a dagger?” 

As annoying as Merrill questions were, she was right. Rana had no business leaving the house; even Fenris would agree if he were awake. She could practically hear him rattling off a litany of reasons why this was a bad idea. Rana blocked them out as best she could and tied on her tunic, dragging on a pair of his leather gauntlets.

“Rana. I asked you if you know how to use a dagger?” 

“How much different can a dagger be from a garden knife?”

Merrill stared at her in disbelief. “Creators, you have no idea, do you?”

“I don’t care about the bandits: I’ll sing a high C at them and stab them while they’re stunned. Anyway, they won’t be out in such weather, you said so yourself.” She rushed past Merrill and headed downstairs. “I can’t believe I just said that,” Rana muttered, but was just too exhausted to care. 

“Fenris and Sebastian would kill me if anything happened to you, and I need you here, Rana—” 

“We have no choice, Merrill. Hopefully, I’ll run into Sebastian on the bridge.” Rana strapped one of Fenris’s longswords to her belt, hoping she didn’t injure herself with it. “…I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“This is a mistake. You’ll get yourself killed, and then where will we be? _What will I tell Fenris?_ ”

“If I waste more time, you won’t have to tell him anything. He’ll not last the night.” 

Rana didn’t give her a chance to respond. She slipped out the door and ran down the street. Thankfully, the wind and rain had subdued. Rana adjusted her hood against the drizzle, sword slapping her thigh as she made her way to the city gates. She didn’t meet Sebastian on the bridge, as she’d hoped, nor was he on her route through the city streets. 

“Hold,” the guardsman at the gate called. “Name and purpose of travel.”

“Rana El-Khoury,” she replied. “I’m seeking Brother Sebastian Vael.” 

The man narrowed his eyes at the night watchman’s record book. “He left before dawn, it says. Chantry business. Not back yet?” 

She shook her head. “Did he say which way he was going?” 

“No, milady, but the Coast is no place for a lady as yourself.”

“My lord’s life requires it, messere.” She plucked up her courage and strode for the gate. 

“Stay to the high ground, milady,” he called after her. “The soil near the cliffs often crumbles in the rains.” 

She waved her thanks and pressed onwards, praying she wasn’t too late. The Chantry bells rang four times in the distance. Rana frowned. Three more hours until sunset. She had to hurry. 

The road was rutted with mud puddles; her boots sank up to her ankles as she trekked farther out onto the Wounded Coast. Rana had never been outside Kirkwall, before; the scenery was rugged and alien, yet beautiful in its own way. Sharp rocks like many teeth in a giant maw jutted out into the sea. The cliffs, both at the water’s edge and going into the coastal foothills beside her, were sheer and steep, treacherous to traverse, save for the well-worn trails. Rana could see why Merrill was so worried about her coming out here: one false move, and they’d never find her until spring. 

A soft whinny drew her attention. “ _Yi!_ Hello,” Rana said, wading her way towards the horse. Inspecting the saddle, she saw the Chantry’s sun was tooled into the leather. Her eyes went wide. 

“Sebastian?” She screamed, eyes scanning the area for clues. “Sebastian, where are you?” There was no one in the immediate vicinity, that was easy to tell. She stumbled down the road as quickly as possible. “Sebastian?” She stopped, straining to hear. Was that a reply, or the waves crashing on the rocks? 

“Rana?”

Her heart leapt in her chest. A faint reply floated over from the sea cliffs. She crossed the road; there was a bushel basket of rock rose branches by the ledge, a coil of rope next to it. “Sebastian?”

“Down here.” 

Rana peered over, careful not to get too close to the edge. Sebastian stared up at her from a narrow ledge, clutching his arm to his chest. She gasped. 

“ _Yi!_ How did you— Oh, Sebastian, can you walk?”

“Aye, I think so, but me arm. I think I broke it.” Rana groaned. He couldn’t climb like that, and while she’d gotten stronger from hauling water and chores, she surely couldn’t pull him up herself. How could she rescue him? How—her eyes fell to the rope.

“Stay there,” she cried. Her boots slipped in the sticky mud as she scrambled back across the road. “God, Maker, whoever’s listening: please help me.” 

Rana was very grateful to have a rope and horse to rescue Sebastian. She’d only seen such a feat accomplished in Western movies, with cowboys using lassos that had expertise in such things. _She_ had no idea what she was doing; she’d never ridden a horse before, let alone realize how big they were. She eyed the beast with trepidation.

“ _Yi_ , you’re big. You’re a big horse,” she said, gingerly grasping the reins. The horse snorted, jerking its head. Rana jumped. “Oh. Nice horsey, don’t be afraid. Do you bite?” 

She prayed they didn’t as she took the reins and led the horse across the road. Rana draped the reins over a nearby bush, grabbing the rope, and cast a glance to the sea. The sun slipped ever closer to the horizon, there was no time to lose. Several knots later, Rana was still at a loss.

“ _Venhedis._ _Now_ what?” she asked herself. “I can’t even tie a damned knot that holds.” 

Tying like she would her shoelaces wasn’t working, but perhaps tying like she does to stitch her hair in place…it was the only other knot she knew, and worth a try, at least. Rana had learned before her debut there was no such thing as bobby pins or hairpins in Kirkwall—updos and braids were stitched in place, with blunt needles and woolen thread. These were first secured with a slipknot, which Rana quickly learned how to do. Now, she could do it eyes closed, and very reliably. She tied a slipknot and tightened it around the saddle horn.

“Take hold,” Rana shouted, tossing the rope over the ledge. It went taut.

“Wait,” Sebastian cried. “I have to tie this with one hand and me teeth.” It seemed like ages before he gave the signal. 

She clicked her tongue, relieved that the horse followed her lead across the road. “Let’s bring him up. Good horse.”

It was slow, considering the horse had a difficult time finding its footing in the mud, and she unstuck its hooves with each step. Rana looked up and gasped. There, standing before her, was bloodied, mud-covered Sebastian. Rana threw herself at him and nearly sent them both over the edge with the velocity of her hug.

“Maker, woman, ye want to kill me?” He winced and cried out, shifting in her embrace. “Ye nearly sent us careening to our deaths.”

“Oh. Oh, you’re safe. Thank God.” Her eyes went wide at her mistake. “T-Thank the Maker, I mean. Sebastian, we have to leave, it’s getting dark, we’ll talk on the way.” She saw his shoulder noticeably drooping, his arm turning black and blue. Sebastian led the horse back with his good hand, while Rana carried the bushel basket. She felt sorry for him limping and shivering, but the road was still too muddy and treacherous to ride the horse.

“Rana, dear Rana, thank ye for saving me,” he said, his voice weak as he shook. “Words fail to say how grateful I am to ye. I would’ve died down there.”

“Oh, Sebastian, you have no idea how worried we were for you—”

“How is Fen?”

She sighed. “Still alive when I left, but…” Her words trailed off, she didn’t need to finish them. Sebastian looked down at her, eyes clouded with worry and regret.

“He’s strong. I ken he’ll pull through.” He was being kind, Rana knew. She _knew_ that, but his words were not comforting. Fenris very well could die, thanks to Sebastian’s accident. 

“Rana, I ken you risked yer life coming out here: ye dinnae ken yer way with a sword or dagger. Had ye met ruffians on the way…” He trailed off. “Ye’re a braw woman. A wee bit mad, but braw and brave, indeed."

Rana felt her face flush. “I’m not brave. You and Fen are. I haven’t fought dragons or monsters. When you feel better ask Merrill about how I would defend myself.” 

“There are other forms of bravery, Rana. Ye’re just as brave, if not braver, than us. ‘Tis no small feat to make a life in such a strange new land.” 

The walk to the city was long and slow; Sebastian’s pain and the darkness were both increasing. The crude crutch Rana had fashioned him offered little help. They dropped the horse off at the stables and made their way to Hightown, pointedly ignoring the shocked expressions at their mud-caked appearance. 

They crossed the Chantry square and stopped at her front door. Sebastian was panting in pain. “Come on,” he gasped, “ye saved me, now let’s save this elf of yers, aye?” 

* * *

A very relieved and exhausted Merrill met them at the door, she took the bushel basket upstairs and ordered Sebastian to devest immediately.

Baths. It took forever to get the thick mud out of Sebastian’s hair and off his body, especially with one hand. He forbade Rana from helping him wash. As Merrill was busy upstairs with the rock rose, Rana assisted him as respectfully as possible as he put on Fenris’s heavy housecoat. Clean and warm, she helped him to the chaise lounge in the library and handed him some soup.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” she muttered, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I had to help you bathe and get dressed, Sebastian. You’ve spent most of the day lying on a rock in the freezing rain.”

He’d never noticed how much she sounded like Fenris when she spoke. It was almost eerie. Rana went to bathe, while Merrill attended to Sebastian’s injuries. He could feel his bones shifting and knitting together under his skin. The poultice Merrill made was very soothing; he was grateful the pain diminished almost immediately. 

The three commenced in what Sebastian could only describe as a dream. In their haze of exhaustion, their hands blindly followed Merrill’s orders. It was a whirlwind of tinctures, leeches, and magic.

They worked all through the night, into the next day. They never noticed the day melt into night again; it was critical that they kept going. Sebastian frowned as he noticed Rana looking increasingly pale in the firelight; her eyes took on a worrisome glossy sheen. 

“Rana,” he said, crossing the room to her. She was stirring their latest batch of tincture and stoking the fire. “Go and rest. Merrill and I have it well in hand.” 

“I’m not leaving him,” she replied, voice hoarse. “Not now, I just can’t.” 

“You’ve been up for several days.” 

“So have you.” Rana bowed her head to hide her face. 

“I’m used to long hours,” he said. “I’d keep holy vigil in the Chantry during nights.” Her stoking quickened. “Rana. Go, go on.”

“I’m alright, Sebastian—” Her pace became frenetic, jabbing at a log before the poker fell from her fingers. Her body trembled as she hid her face in her hands. “But what if he doesn’t make it?” she cried. “Sebastian. H-He’s my life, he’s my everything. I couldn’t bear to lose him.” 

He wrapped his arm around her. “Ye have to trust he’ll pull through, he has to. The Maker’s merciful, H-He wouldnae take Fen from us so soon.” He could feel his own tears gathering at the thought of such an outcome. 

“Where will I go? What will I do?”

“Ye’re not alone. I’ll help ye every step of the way, Rana. Ye’re the sister I never had.” She burst into a maelstrom of tears, lamenting in Tevene and what he assumed was Lebanese. Sebastian’s heart ached for her. He drew her to his chest and held her while she wept, wiping his own tears away. 

It was sometime after midnight when Merrill dropped the syringe in the empty tincture bowl. “I can’t go any further,” she announced, sagging with exhaustion. She collapsed into the nearest chair. “My mana’s nearly overextended.” 

Sebastian was too tired to rouse himself from his armchair and comment. His head lolled onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Sebastian. We’ve done all we could.”

He startled awake and rubbed his eyes. “Hn? Wha—”

“Go and rest in the guest room.” Merrill gathered her tools and placed them in boiling water. “We’re not finished, but he’s out of danger. He should rest through the night.”

“Praise the Maker! I cannae thank ye enough, Merrill.” 

“Don’t thank me yet, we still have work to do. You should rest, for your injuries, I’ll watch him a bit longer. Please get Rana to bed.” 

Sebastian found Rana slumped onto the table. “Rana,” he called softly, touching her shoulder. “Time for bed.” No response. He shook her shoulder. “Rana.” He was fully awake now, dread settled on him. “ _Rana, can ye hear me?_ ” 

Merrill looked up from cleaning her equipment. “She’s not waking?” 

He shook his head. “She cannae be that fast asleep, can she?” 

Merrill set down her bowl and crossed the room. She brushed Rana’s hair off her face and set her against the chairback. “Creators,” she gasped. “She’s burning up.” 

“What?” He and Merrill exchanged horrified looks. A sheen of sweat covered Rana’s clammy skin; she barely acknowledged them as they brought her to her room and prepared for yet another long, sleepless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: Syringes have been around for thousands of years. Pre-Columbian Native Americans used animal bladders attached to hollowed bones, and in the 800s, Iraqi-Egyptian physician Ammar ibn 'Ali al-Mawsili' developed a glass syringe powered by suction to treat cataracts. His technique was used well into the 1300s. 
> 
> Fact II: Before hair pins were invented in the 1600s (The bobby pin wasn’t invented until the 1920s), ladies kept their hair in place (and also attached their fake hairpieces) by stitching with woolen thread and a blunt needle. It was comfortable, effective, and helped with achieving hairstyles where pins would show. To remove, they simply snipped the knot with scissors and saved the thread for next time!


	19. A Mage, A Raven, and A Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t the usual burning ache Fenris was accustomed to from the brands, the agony that had been his companion for twelve years. This felt more of a permeating poison, a sickness, yet he didn’t remember falling ill. The last thing he recalled was shivering under a quilt while Rana sang him to sleep…  
> He opened his eyes. The walls and ceiling were horribly blurred. He blinked, shook his head. Pain shot down his neck as bandages pressed against his skin. The ceiling was still blurry; he could barely make out the cracks in it.  
> His stomach flipped. “What has happened to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to the epic AnnaLucia, slayer of superfluous commas and run-on sentences. And sending hugs to you, lovelies, for your continued support. You are much appreciated <3
> 
> Scroll down to hear this chapter's song via Youtube link! Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

A cursory examination thankfully showed no injuries, but Rana was burning with fever. Fevers didn’t usually render one unconscious, not unless it was magical in origin—

‘ _That’s foolishness_ ,’ Merrill told herself. ‘ _Fenris would never fall in love with a mage, let alone live with one. Something else must’ve happened_.’

“I _told_ her to not run about in that damned chemise,” Sebastian groused, wringing out a cold compress. “I _told_ her she’d catch her death. If Fenris kenned, he’d—”

Merrill’s eyes widened. “She went out in that storm in nothing but a nightgown?”

Sebastian was beside himself. “Aye! She ran straight from her bed to fetch me. And the night monitor’s slower than Templars in tar, I swear—I could barely make out Rana’s words for all the teeth chattering. Stood out in the rain for Maker kens how long.”

Catching a chill, not sleeping for several days, emotional and physical upset—it was enough to make her feverish and ill, but not this high of a fever. Merrill heaved a sigh and continued down the hall to Fenris’s room to make tinctures. 

“Feverfew, angelica, myrrh. Garlic flakes and olive leaves for infection,” she muttered to herself. There was some leftover rock rose; Merrill added it to the pot and let it steep with the others. She hoped it would be enough; her mana couldn’t handle casting any more spells.

“How can I help?” Sebastian asked, jostling her elbow. “I cannae stand about doing nothing.” Merrill stirred her tinctures and glanced up. The way the firelight hit him just so, casting his hair golden and highlighting the piercing blue of his eyes—the spoon nearly fell from her fingers. He almost, just for a moment, looked exactly like her beloved Tamlen. His mannerisms were similar, too: brave, selfless. Tamlen always put the needs of the Clan first. She blinked back the aching tears his memory brought up.

“Mind Fenris and the tinctures for me; I’ll go examine Rana.” She turned briskly and rushed into the hall, grateful Sebastian couldn’t see her face. Even if she closed her eyes, she could see Tamlen’s kind smile, hear his laugh. She loved his laugh; it reminded her of sunshine bursting from behind a cloud. A lump burned in her throat. If only he hadn’t gone into the ruins. If only he hadn’t been so curious and touched the Eluvian mirror, he never would’ve gone missing. She never would’ve lost her clan in her quest to find him—

“ _Ir abelas, ma vhenan_ ,” she whispered. “I’ve failed you, my love.” A bout of coughing floated in from Rana’s room. Merrill took a deep breath to steady herself before going to her. 

There’s an energy that all mages and magical objects radiated, a unique song sung across the worlds that only magic and its wielders could hear. Fenris, thanks to the lyrium in his skin, had a song, mournful and lonely. Anders had sounded discordant with Justice within him. Now, standing before Rana, she heard a song, haunting and silvery. Merrill closed her eyes and delved deep, searching for a wisp of mana to hold onto. She tugged it gently and let the magic flow into her patient. She jumped nearly half a foot when the magic reacted and Rana’s hand glowed blue.

Merrill gasped, jaw agape, and quickly scanned the room to ensure Sebastian wasn’t there. A faint pink mark peeked out from under Rana’s sleeve. Merrill gently pushed it back and grimaced when a newly healed wound stared up from the girl’s inner arm. Several of them, running parallel with her arm, the line of new skin not too deep or wide. She replaced the sleeve and swallowed hard, returning to Fenris’s room to strain her tinctures, while her mind swirled with questions. 

She’d always thought there was more to Rana than met the eye, but she never imagined the girl was a blood mage, or that Fenris was complicit in hiding it. Anger bubbled inside her. ‘Monster.’ ‘Witch,’ he would say. For years, Fenris had defamed Merrill for her blood magic, and yet here he was, defending the very thing he criticized her for. It was unbelievable. Hypocrite. She stabbed the log with the poker. Bloody, blighted hypocrite—

The log fell apart with a pop, upsetting her tinctures and sending sparks flying. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she mumbled, salvaging what she could. Fenris didn’t stir. She was grateful, she supposed; as much as she wanted answers, Fenris was barely lucid. Rana would be her likeliest lead for information, once well enough to talk.

Still shaken, but satisfied she had a plan, Merrill returned to Rana. The answer was so clear, now that she realized the truth. Suppressed magic had nowhere to go and built up in Rana’s body until it burnt it from the inside out. There was only one solution, one only Rana could accomplish herself. 

“Rana,” Merrill called as she revived her. “You must cast something.” The girl moaned and stirred on her pillow, sweaty hair stuck to her forehead.

“No. They’ll know,” she murmured, “I can’t. I promised.” Just as Merrill thought, she _had_ been suppressing. 

“Your magic is making you ill. We must bring it back to balance again. Come on.” Merrill spoke firmly, with the commanding tone she’d used when she was the Keeper’s apprentice, the next in line to lead her clan. She ignored Rana’s protests and helped her upright, urging her on.

“Make me a Magelight, please,” Merrill said, still shocked she was saying those words to Fenris’s lover. “I have something to show you.”

It was slow and lurching, due to Rana’s mana being so suppressed, but she eventually conjured a misshapen ball of flickering silver light. Merrill felt the girl’s forehead and smiled; the fever was already starting to lessen. She scooped the ball of light up and gently tossed it back to Rana.

“I played this game with the Keeper as a young girl,” she said, urging Rana to throw it back. Memories of her clan returned to her and made her heart ache. “I-It’s trickier than it looks; you must keep the energy contained in its sphere, but also envision where you want it to go—that’s it. Again.” 

While the game expended Rana’s magical energy, it served another purpose: a person’s ball could speak much of their ability. The more in control of one’s magic, the more precise the movement and the more spherical the ball. Rana, though? This wasn’t the magic of a blood mage, this was little better than a child just beginning to learn. Merrill herself helped the Keeper test such children for their aptitude. How, then, was a grown woman like Rana so dreadful at this?

Eventually, Merrill’s game was successful. Much to her relief, the fever dropped. She settled a spent, half-delirious Rana amongst the pillows and passed her the mug of tinctures.

“Sebastian mentioned you’re from north of Tevinter,” Merrill offered as way of conversation, eyes scanning the bedroom. No magical staves that she could see or sense. No grimoires, but she noticed some books on the table—Merrill began tidying the room. “You’re from a place called ‘Lebanon?’ Sebastian said it’s not found on any maps.”

She fussed with the same sheet music over and over, while reading the book titles on the table. _Cautionary Tales for The Adventurous, Hard in Hightown_ , some strange book in Tevene. She shuffled through the stack and nearly dropped them when one of her spell books stared up at her…the book that had gone missing after Fenris had visited her.

Was it—no, Fenris would never steal a book from her, would he? Surely there were other copies around Kirkwall; Fenris’s old master had owned this house, after all; he would have had all sorts of spell books in the library. She glanced over her shoulder to find Rana asleep, and peeked inside the cover.

Danarius may have had spell books in the library, but none of them with ‘Merrill Sabrae’ written in the corner.

Merrill was shaken, her eyes went wide in disbelief as she retreated to Fenris’s room. There was no time to formulate her next step; Fenris was already awake. 

“Where is she?” he whispered through pursed lips. They’d wrapped almost his entire body with linen bandages; only his stark white hair remained free, poking out from under the linen in a very Fenris-like dishevelment. His breath shallowed. “Rana? Ran, come back. I need you.” 

Merrill sighed. “She’s resting,” she replied, readying another batch of tinctures. “Let her sleep, Fenris.”

“I-I want Rana. Ran?”

“Shh.” She looked to Sebastian, who was still snoring in the armchair despite the noise. “She’ll be back, Fenris, don’t worry.” 

He struggled to sit up. “B-But I need her, I can’t _move_. I can’t _see_ —”

“Breathe.” She placed her hand on his abdomen, just like she’d seen Rana do. “Send the air to my hand.” He couldn’t see? That didn’t bode well… 

The panic was narrowly averted, although it wasn’t the only occurrence that day. Even a slight doze sent Fenris into nightmares he couldn’t distinguish from reality, referencing horrible memories Merrill was certain she wasn’t supposed to hear. Floggings, blood magic, monsters parading as men while they crushed souls into the dust. Most of the panic stemmed from fears of going mad or being dragged away to Minrathous. Even after Sebastian woke and attempted calming him, it was no use. The hours stretched on and on, she and Sebastian administering a never-ending stream of tinctures and remedies while attempting to calm Fenris. The sun dipped below the rooftops before Fenris finally fell asleep and stayed asleep, with the aid of valerian tea.

“Please tell me Rana’s better. I need good news today,” Merrill said to Sebastian later that night. He plopped into Fenris’s chair at the head of the table. 

“Her breathing’s improved, but the fever’s gone to her lungs, I fear,” he replied. “She cannae stop coughing and gasping.” Inflammation would be a challenge until her magic regulated. Merrill sighed and stirred her soup, leaning her head in her hand—

“Merrill, wake up.” 

Her head snapped back, and she nearly upset her soup bowl. “‘M fine,” she slurred. Creators, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Sebastian scoffed a laugh. “Go rest awhile, I’ll care for them.”

She blinked at him, bleary eyed. “But his nightmares, and her breathing—”

“Merrill. Ye need to care for yerself, as well. Go on.” He herded her to the guest room with the promise to wake her should he require her assistance. She was asleep before he reached the door.

_The dream was like always: Merrill stood before the Elvhen ruins, heart in her throat. These were the ruins where they’d discovered the Eluvian, her friend, Mahariel, dead, and Tamlen—she ran down the steps and into the maze of winding stone corridors, shouting his name. The floor still felt cold and floury under her feet from all the dust; the statues of the gods seemed stern in the harsh Magelight. Farther and farther she ran, deeper into the maze. The stone groaned and scraped as the corridors stretched before her._

_“You left me,” Tamlen’s voice bounced off the stone. “You promised to find me, that you’d restore the Eluvian. You lied to me, Merrill. Eight years, I’ve waited.”_

_“I swear, I’ll find you—” Merrill cried._

She shot up in bed with a shout, burying her face in her hands. Her heart threw itself against her ribcage. 

“Merrill, I need ye,” Sebastian said from the hall. “I cannae calm him.”

She groaned under her breath. Creators, she felt like she hadn’t slept at all. Merrill dragged her aching bones down the hall, heading straight to her herb box. 

“He won’t stop asking for her,” Sebastian said, visibly shaken. “He’s convinced I’ve done away with her and he cannae catch his breath.” 

_Fenedhis_ , he wasn’t doing well. Fenris shuddered as he sobbed for air, so disoriented and afraid. No breathing exercises would help this. Star of Redcliffe, rock rose, cherry plum, impatiens, clematis. Merrill steeled herself against the crying and set the herbs on to steep. “Fetch Rana,” she said. “We need her.”

“Wha—ye want her _here_? She cannae be moved, she’s far too unwell—” 

Merrill strained her tincture through a sieve. “We have no choice.” She ran her hand through her disheveled hair. “Drink this,” she instructed Fenris. The herbs would act quickly; this tincture was always effective.

“Ya Fen?” she heard from the hall. Sebastian pushed open the door, supporting a gasping Rana as she shuffled in. “Ya Fen?”

Fenris couldn’t turn his head much from the bandages. Even with the little he could, his eyes were unfocused, frantically searching for the source of the sound. Sebastian escorted Rana to the bed, his expression concerned and disapproving. 

“Ran,” Fenris cried, arms straining against the bandages to reach her. She stifled a cough and wrapped her arms around him. 

“ _Hic sum, ya habibi_ ,” she said, stroking his hair. The candlelight reflected tears in his eyes. “It’s alright now, I’m here, love.” 

The very energy in the room seemed to calm as Rana held him and the tinctures took effect. The two spoke too quickly for Merrill to catch all the syllables, even if it was in Tevene. It was very disturbing to see Fenris so vulnerable, so utterly unlike himself. This was not the taciturn man Merrill knew; she saw Fenris as incapable of emotion. _That_ Fenris did not panic; he was calculating and strategic, nor did he feel or display anything except anger and disdain. He certainly did not weep for joy, that was certain. The man before her wasn’t _that_ Fenris, and she was very pleased by it.

Merrill watched them, chest aching. She thought of Tamlen once again. He had always been there to soothe her nightmares away. How fortunate that Fenris had found his own Tamlen so far away from his home, having endured such atrocities. He didn’t have to suffer the shattering loneliness like she did. She looked up to Sebastian with tears in his eyes. The candlelight hit his hair and eyes just so and for the first time in many months, Merrill wept.

* * *

Cecily Seymour was, in her humble opinion, a woman that knew her own mind. Once she set herself to a task, she would not stop until it was accomplished. She’d always been that way, even as a young girl—such a trait was useful in monarchs. If she was to be the future Teyrna, she had to be ambitious, driven, for the good of Ostwick and her people. She wasn’t one to pass an opportunity to better herself, especially when it blew in on a ship from Kirkwall. 

The moment she had come upon Sebastian leaning against a pillar at the reception a month ago, Cecily knew. She could not take her eyes off him: tall, handsome, piercing blue eyes and a charming demeanor, despite the rumors circulating around him. Was this man truly as salacious and dangerous as they said? He had a bewitching twinkle in his eye, a tiny smirk that was innocent, but hinted at a playful wickedness Cecily craved to see. By the end of the evening, she had decided she would be the next Princess of Starkhaven _and_ the Teyrna of Ostwick. 

Such a goal needed flawless execution. Sebastian wouldn’t have sailed for two weeks just for a social call; he sought support for his campaign. And such an alliance, Cecily knew, was the perfect opportunity to bond them together. She sent Alain and her ladies-in-waiting to spy on Sebastian and gather as much information as they could on him.

Gaining Sebastian’s trust was a bit of work, considering how distrustful he was. Regular flattery was ineffective, so she resorted to other baser methods. she meticulously planned her day around Sebastian and his schedule, down to the color of her dress and the style of her hair. He preferred light colors? She wore cream and pastels. His mother was known for her lavender sachets? Even if Cecily couldn’t stand the stuff, she wore lavender hair oil whenever she could. She used every little nuance to make herself irresistible to him. 

Cecily enjoyed it, and that surprised her. She looked forward to their conversations about archery or Kirkwall, the stories about his friends. She wanted to know more about him, about this Fenris he talked about so fondly. Hear his favorite bard, Rana El-Khoury. Most importantly, she wanted him to succeed. Ostwick and Starkhaven—and, by extension, Cecily and Sebastian—were bound to each other. Their futures and the futures of their peoples hung in the balance. She dedicated herself to making the alliance fruitful. 

If only Alain Trevelyan saw things that way. 

The moment she’d landed the alliance with Starkhaven, Alain refused to leave her be. He followed her about the palace, pressing his family’s political agenda on her. He appeared again that afternoon as Cecily took her tea in her solarium.

“Can ye speak to the Teyrn soon?” he asked, plopping unannounced into the chair opposite her. “Ye know me family needs that wool monopoly in Starkhaven.”

Bursting into her private apartments without ceremony was overly familiar. Helping himself to tea uninvited was nothing short of blatant insolence. She raised her eyebrow at him. If he rambled to her about sheep _one more time_ , she’d… 

“We can’t favor one family over the other, Alain,” Cecily replied, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. “Even if yer father’s on the Privy Council, the Trevelyans don’t have enough flocks to be the sole suppliers of wool.”

He huffed into his cup. “If it wasn’t for me, there’d be no alliance.” 

“If it wasn’t for _me_ , Sebastian would’ve never gained the favor needed to succeed,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “Yes, ye did help, for which ye have been paid.” She went to a locked box on her desk. “Here. Read this.” She returned to the tea table and tossed a letter to him. He snatched it up greedily, eyes scanning the parchment. 

“Wha—a liaison?”

“We need representatives in Starkhaven to protect Ostwicker interests. I suggested yer name to Father, and ye’re now a liaison to oversee the new trade post, once it’s settled.” Alain was most certainly not her first choice, but she had a plan for him. If she kept him indebted to her, she could manipulate him later. It was best to cultivate her supporters in Starkhaven early, making it an easier transition as Princess. 

His eyes lit up. “Maker bless you, Ceci.” 

‘Ceci? Oh no,’ she thought, shifting in her seat, fingers drumming the table. “Cecily, Alain. It’s _Cecily._ Don’t ye dare take liberties with me.” Even a scone couldn’t wash the distaste from her mouth. “I advise ye to remember that.”

After their meeting, Alain became her veritable shadow, which became more than excessive. He was becoming a liability, trying to form such a close bond to her. Her supporters became suspicious of his zealousness, a hindrance to her plans instead of the help she desired. 

She attempted distancing herself, changing her schedule, avoiding common areas in the court. The palace in Ostwick boasted a complex network of secret tunnels behind the walls, which Cecily used to move undetected. Alain relentlessly sought her out. The more he pestered her, the more the court whispered… This had to end. These rumors were nothing less than scandalous. Cecily went to her desk and scribbled a note on a slip of parchment.

_‘A-_

_I must speak with ye. Meet me in the palace gardens at nine bells. Wear yer white hood, so I know it’s ye._

_-C’_

She folded the note and tucked it into her sleeve, hurrying to the library. There was an art to hurrying without looking rushed; any kind of overly long strides would be too obvious and alert anyone spying. Cecily gently lifted her skirt hem and glided down the hall, head high as she sailed past ogling courtiers to a forgotten corner of the library. She glanced around and took down a hollowed-out copy of _The History of the Chantry_. In the note went, before replacing the book on the shelf and finding another to read, to not seem suspicious. 

The hours stretched on and on while she waited for nine bells to arrive. Dinner was insufferably long, with her father droning on about bolstering the navy and chasing down pirates. She ought to have been listening, yet couldn’t bring herself to. She excused herself as soon as politely possible, changing into a nondescript blue skirt and sensible blouse before slipping through the false panel in her wardrobe. Hopefully, it was enough of a disguise to deceive the spies.

The secret tunnels led her to an alcove near the garden. Cecily poked her head round the corner, peering out into the shadows. The place seemed abandoned, even if she was a little early. She leaned against the stone wall, watching the oak trees sway in the autumn breeze as she waited.

There, at the far end of the garden, was a man in a white hood. Cecily turned the corner to go to Alain but stopped mid-step. A cloaked figure appeared from behind the trees and joined him. She watched the two converse, Alain passing a parcel and letter before walking further into the garden. Obviously to meet her, she realized. Ice settled in her chest. The cloaked figure disappeared into the night. Cecily backed away, eyes wide, running through the tunnels and finally sank into the chair at her desk. She trembled, thinking about the months of confidential correspondence she’d entrusted Alain with.

Alain Trevelyan was a traitor, and unless she wanted to implicate herself as his accomplice, Cecily was resigned to silence.

* * *

“What do you mean, we’re delayed here?” The angry voice filled the room. “Explain yourself.”

Varania fidgeted in her chair, staring out the bay window in Danarius’s quarters. Ever since Danarius had punished her, he requested her presence in his quarters each day. Mostly, it was to keep an eye on her and separate her from her son. Other times, she acted as his scribe and secretary. That day, she made herself as invisible as possible while Danarius and the captain argued. 

“The pirates, my lord: they take advantage of the autumn storms docking us,” the captain said. “The Teyrn has ordered all vessels to remain at port while the Royal Navy chases them out of the strait—” 

“The longer we delay, the less likely we’ll reach Minrathous before winter storms make travel impossible. _We must go_ ,” Danarius snapped. “I haven’t come this far to be foiled by some ruffians in a galley.” 

The captain scoffed. “My lord Magister, the pirates of Estwatch are famous through Thedas—”

Danarius turned and glared out the window, his eyes almost white in the autumn sunlight. “…How long of a delay?”

The captain shifted on his feet. “It’s a two-week voyage to Kirkwall from Ostwick. I’d say we could arrive in Kirkwall a week before Satinalia. Perhaps sooner if the Maker smiles on us.” 

Varania’s eyes widened. Six weeks longer on this horrific boat with Danarius? How her brother stood such a villain for as long as he had, she couldn’t guess… 

“Begone,” Danarius spat at him, magic crackling just under the surface. The song his magic sang was agitated, fitful. “I have no use for you.” The captain bowed his head and departed, relief clear in his eyes.

Danarius whirled and struck the desk with his fist. “ _Venhedis. Fasta vass, kavesh—_ ” He blinked at her, a glimmer of surprise on his face before it resumed its composed mask. “You’re still here.”

Varania nodded, hands balled in her skirt. She knew better than to speak unless specifically asked a question. Danarius straightened up, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his robes. 

“I’m taking rooms at an inn; I refuse to stay in this cabin a second longer than necessary.” He left, his heavy footfall receding away as he called for the quartermaster. Varania shot from the chair and ran to the desk.

_‘Brother-_

_Ship delayed in Ostwick, not arriving until late Harvestmere. Bring reinforcements to our meeting, it’s a—’_

She heard footsteps marching down the hall. Varania immediately replaced the quill in the inkwell and folded her unfinished letter, stuffing it up her sleeve with trembling hands. She slipped out the door before Danarius returned, grateful the guards were too busy serving their master to notice. 

The ship deck was bustling with activity, thanks to restocking supplies. It was easy to duck behind crates and barrels, making her way down the gangplank and stealing out into the port. The sea was so different here, Varania noticed. A gray-blue as opposed to the lurid turquoise she was used to in Tevinter. There was no scent of incense on the air, or cinnamon and rose. This was a place of commerce, utilitarianism. Turpentine, pitch, fish, savory smells wafting from the food carts and taverns across the street. Ostwick’s fabled double walls loomed high above them, casting a shadow.

She had no time to admire the scenery or explore. Varania ran across the street to the nearest dock official. “I need a letter delivered to Kirkwall,” she said, catching her breath. “Where is your Guild of Messengers?”

The man furrowed his brow. “Guild, me lady? We’ve no guild—”

She could hear the quartermaster’s voice on the wind. Her magic thrummed behind her sternum when she noticed Danarius emerge on deck. “Please. I-I need a messenger now.” 

“The scrivener has messenger ravens—”

“ _Where?_ ” She didn’t mean for her voice to go sharp or to betray her fear. Her fists balled in her skirts to hide the slushy snow in her palms. The man jumped at her ferocity.

“Turn left at the corner and enter the courtyard. He’s upstairs—”

Varania gave hasty thanks and ran around the corner. She could not, under any circumstances, let Danarius catch her. Her son’s life would be at risk for her disobedience. She ducked into the courtyard and climbed the stairs, pounding on the man’s door. A bent, reedy man answered.

“I need this sent to Kirkwall immediately,” she said, fumbling with her coin purse. “I-I’ll pay whatever you ask—” The man’s eyes went from her eyes over to her ears. Her face went hot; no doubt the price just doubled…

“Ask a ship at the docks,” he replied, making to close the door. “Me birds aren’t just for anyone. Reserved for urgent business.”

Varania thrust her foot in the door. “My brother’s life is in danger. I don’t care if I must purchase the damned bird from you myself, this letter _must_ reach Kirkwall as soon as possible.”

He stared at her long and hard. “Ten silvers,” he replied. “I’ll send it later.” He shuffled towards the account book at the desk. Varania checked over her shoulder and entered.

“Twelve silvers, and I watch you do it,” she countered. He raised his eyebrow and shrugged, expertly folding her message to fit in the carrying tube.

“Name of recipient?”

“Fenris of Kirkwall.” She watched him write the appropriate addendums. “How…how long does it take, a raven?”

“A week, give or take.” She let out the breath she was holding and watched the man select a bird from his collection. He affixed the tube to the bird’s leg and released it out the window. She paid him and made her way downstairs, sliding down a stone pillar in the courtyard to the flagstones below.

She’d done all she could, it was up to the Maker now. Shaking with fear of Danarius finding her, she carefully wove in between crewmen and crates, and slipped into her cabin undetected.

* * *

The first thing Fenris heard early that morning was Sebastian saying goodbye and thanking Merrill as he left on Chantry business. Fenris’s second realization was the horrific pain coursing through his body. This wasn’t the usual burning ache he was accustomed to from the brands, the agony that had been his companion for twelve years. This felt more of a permeating poison, a sickness, yet he didn’t remember falling ill. The last thing he recalled was shivering under a quilt while Rana sang him to sleep… 

He opened his eyes. The walls and ceiling were horribly blurred. He blinked, shook his head. Pain shot down his neck as bandages pressed against his skin. The ceiling was still blurry; he could barely make out the cracks in it. 

His stomach flipped. “What has happened to me?”

Fenris struggled to sit up. Everywhere, there were bandages—arms, hands, chest, legs, feet. Someone had wrapped him in miles of bandages, but he didn’t remember it. H-He didn’t even know what day it was, or why everything was a blur, a-a-and no matter _what_ he did, he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Fenris hid his face in the white and brown blobs he knew as hands, and he felt an impossible coldness in his palms. There was a tug behind his sternum, except instead of the brands igniting as they always did after that sensation, ice incased his hands all the way to his wrist. 

He didn’t remember screaming. The sound clawing itself from his throat was completely detached from him. He began to shake and shriek, and, despite the pain, pounded the sheets with all his strength. The sound was grief-filled, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. 

“ _Yi!_ What is it? What happened?” Rana cried, crossing the room to him. “Ya Fenris? Wha—oh my God! No, how can it be? Oh, Fen!”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the ice. He knew it was ice; it wasn’t clear in his vision, but he could feel it coming out of his hands. There was only one explanation for it, but that would’ve been impossible, b-because he was a swordsman, a warrior, he couldn’t have magic. He _couldn’t_ have magic; it didn’t make sense. He had to be asleep. This had to be a nightmare, plain and simple. A horrific nightmare—

Fenris was many things, but he was never a very good liar, especially to himself.

“Ran,” he moaned, unable to catch his breath. “Ran—” If there was a facial expression on Rana’s face, he couldn’t see it. Dread settled in his chest. 

“Ya Fen, you’re alright,” she said. She took his face in her hands; they felt markedly warmer than usual, but he was too distraught and confused to be sure. It was like all the world was melting around him, and all the little, inconsequential things were left behind…

Rana spoke to him again. “Ya Fenris El-Khoury, I want you to take a nice deep breath. That’s it. Send the air to your navel. Breathe for me.”

He dragged air through his swollen throat. In for four, hold, out for four, just as Rana had taught him. “R-Ran—” She sat on the bed beside him and leaned in, coming into focus. She was so pale, he noticed. Peaked, her eyes glassy. Was she ill, too, or was it a trick of the light? 

“What’s happening? Creators!” He knew who it was without being able to see her well. A blurry Merrill stood in the doorway; her abrupt entrance startled them both. Frost spread across the sheets beneath him. Rana gasped and grabbed her sternum, staring in disbelief. Every candle in the room flared and burned down to nothing but a puddle of wax. 

Fenris’s thoughts clogged behind utmost terror; a tug behind his sternum sent heat shooting down his arms, loosening the ice. It was over; Merrill had seen everything. She knew Rana had magic, and now, so did he. Merrill did this. Out of revenge for all the times he was unkind to her, he was sure of it. Merrill cautiously approached the bed to examine him. 

“ _You! What did you do to me?_ ” Fenris shrieked, lunging for her neck. His bandages prevented him from fully grabbing her throat. “You disgusting witch. Take it back, _take it back—_ ”

“Ya Fenris, stop!” Merrill was struggling to free herself. Fenris could hear Rana screaming as she yanked his bandaged arms away. He could hear himself shouting in every language he knew, but it felt strangely separate from him. His eyes stared ahead; they should’ve been fixed on Merrill spluttering before him, but he saw nothing. The screams rang in his rapidly emptying mind. His chest ached where his heart should be; he wanted nothing more but for the pain to stop. 

They pried his hands away. He was too numb to care. All that registered was ‘mage’ blaring in his head, and the rest fell into a freefall. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Merrill,” Rana said. “Are you alright? He’s distraught; h-he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Rana turned to Fenris. “Fen, listen to me. The brands leached, we had to remove them to save your life. You almost died.” she explained, brushing the hair from his face. 

He tried to reply, but the words got stoppered in his throat. The brands were gone. He tried to comprehend the words, the enormity of them. Gone. The pain, once he healed, would be no more. He’d finally be healed. Fenris couldn’t imagine what that would feel like, to be well, for the first time in his life. Inconceivable. He ought to be singing, dancing, celebrating, but all he felt was shocked. 

All this time, the brands were a form of magic. For years, that little tug behind his sternum wasn’t him tapping into the lyrium, it was simple spellcasting, and Fenris had been unaware, he had no idea. Everything curled inwards as he crumbled onto Rana’s shoulder. Tears came unbidden.

“Let it out,” she said, stroking his sweaty hair. “Fenris. Please let it out.” 

‘ _You’re a mage_ ,’ the sound of Danarius’s voice echoed in his head, ‘ _a monster. What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?’_

“Rana,” Fenris replied through his tears. “It hasn’t spoiled my Rana.”

And if it hadn’t spoiled her, he decided, he wouldn’t allow it to spoil him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Ir abelas, ma vhenan: I’m sorry, my love  
> Hic sum, ya habibi: I’m here, my love
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> Fact I: Turpentine and pitch were used to caulk/waterproof ships and make naval paint. They were integral supplies at shipyards. 
> 
> Fact II: The herb tincture Merrill makes to calm Fenris is an actual formula used for upset, overcoming trauma, anxiety and loss. Star of Bethlehem, rock rose, cherry plum, impatiens, clematis. It’s aptly named Rescue Remedy.  
> The remedies were developed in the 1930s by Dr. Edward Bach, a physician and homeopath who believed the key to overall health was to care for the mind, as well as the body. He spent his life exploring the use of flowers and plants as a means to promote emotional well-being.  
> By 1936, he identified 38 flower essences, each derived from a different wild flower, plant or tree, and each corresponding to a specific emotion. It is still used successfully today, including flower essences for our pets.
> 
> 0o0o0o
> 
> 'Wicked Eyes, and Wicked Hearts,' from "Dragon Age: Inquisition": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hRumpq0jX4  
> This was the perfect music for all the deception, sneaking, and betrayal happening in this chapter. The piece picks up momentum at the end, crescendoing as Fenris discovers he has magic and panics. It asks a musical question that's left hanging at the end: what will happen now?


	20. Tavvie and Tommy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, my dears! Sending you all hugs and much gratitude: your support truly means the world to me. And much love and thanks to AnnaLucia, my best friend and beta extraordinaire.

Sebastian came home to find some unexpected changes. He could hear Fenris sobbing in his room, and yet, without explanation, Merrill forbade Sebastian entry. Only Rana could enter, and she spent every waking hour possible there. Merrill charged him with running the house while she tended to the others. Exiled him to the kitchen, with naught more explanation than ‘not now.’

…He could count on one hand the times he ever cooked anything, let alone fed people. He’d never even gone to market, before; the Sisters would always take care of such things at the Chantry. Yet again at Merrill’s request, there Sebastian was, perusing the Lowtown Bazaar for anything that wasn’t chard or radishes… or, better yet, something ready-made. 

“Choirboy?” Sebastian whirled around, looking for the source of the sound. No one ever called him ‘Choirboy’ save Varric—a throat cleared at his shoulder. Varric Tethras looked up at him, with a surprised look on his face.

“Varric! It’s good to see ye,” Sebastian said, still clutching a squash he didn’t know what to do with. “How are ye? Havenae seen ye since the wedding.”

“I noticed,” was the curt reply. He leaned against the vegetable stand, eyebrow raised. “Fenris hasn’t stopped by, either. Is he too ‘busy’ for his friends, as well?” His words smarted.

“He’s been very ill, Varric. We nearly lost him. Rana, too.” 

The dwarf’s eyes widened. “What? When?”

“Night of the wedding. Merrill and I have tended them ever since.” Sebastian sighed. The wedding was only last week, and yet it felt like a whole year had passed. 

“I’m coming with you,” Varric announced. “I want to see them—” 

“Merrill has forbidden visitors, even me. No one save her or Rana is allowed in.” He sighed. “As soon as he’s well enough, I’ll send word to you, Varric. I swear it.”

It felt rather flimsy, but it was the best Sebastian could do. As he finished his shopping, Varric was surprisingly friendly, a contrast to the usual disdain he held for him. Perhaps he was fishing for information, but Sebastian was very cautious not to share too much about Rana and Fenris’s illnesses.

Sebastian shook his head and rounded the corner, passing the Chantry on his return. It didn’t sit well that Merrill treated him no better than a casual visitor. How dare she bar him from seeing his friends? He’d seen Fenris at his absolute worst, what was so different now? It didn’t make sense; he felt perplexed and hurt. She had to have been hiding something, or was Fenris relapsing? 

The house was completely silent, Merrill nowhere to be seen. She must have been upstairs with the others. Sighing, he put the groceries away and resolved not to spend another lonely evening in the library. 

“Treat me like a stranger? I think not,” he muttered, stomping across the atrium. “How dare she? I’m the Prince of Starkhaven and that’s me best friend; she cannae do this to me.” He climbed the stairs and listened. There wasn’t the usual bustle of Merrill fussing over her tincture bottles. Sebastian tiptoed down the hall to Rana’s room to find Rana and Merrill fast asleep. Merrill was curled in a ball in the armchair near the fire. Sebastian smiled to himself and gently shut the door. Nothing would stand in his way to see Fenris, now. He took a deep breath and went in.

“Fenris,” he said in an all-too-cheerful tone, trying to hide his concern. “How are ye today?” There was no answer. Fenris lied perfectly still, facing the wall. 

Sebastian continued. “I, er, ran into Varric at the market. Asked after ye, said he’d come visit once ye were well enough.” He noticed untouched soup from lunch, a tankard of tea gone cold. It didn’t bode well. Sebastian pulled up a chair with a sigh.

“Fenris…ye cannae do this to yerself. Ye havenae eaten; how will ye ever get well that way? _Please_ , just...” he trailed off when he received no response. “Why?” he asked. “Why do ye shut me out? What happened here? I love ye like me brother, why are ye doing this?” 

He waited for a reply, stretching on for what felt like ages. “Do ye ken what ye’re doing to me? I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved; I dinnae want to lose ye, too. Fenris. Fenris, _talk to me_ , just—” the silence was deafening. He brushed away the frustrated tears. “Maker, we could always share everything, never held back, and now look. Ye’re keeping secrets from me.”

Still no response. Sebastian had thought Fenris asleep, until he saw what looked like his friend wiping a tear away. His heart ached.

“Dinnae weep,” he said, patting Fenris’s shoulder. There was a strangled sob. Sebastian leaned in to comfort him, and froze.

There, as clear as day, right in front of his eyes, was ice on Fenris’s cheeks where the tears should’ve been. Sebastian nearly upset the chair when he jumped to his feet, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Sweet Andraste,” he shouted. “Fenris. _Fenris!_ What happened to ye?”

Fenris startled. He pushed himself upright as best he could, tears freezing to his face in rivulets. “I-I’m sorry,” Fenris cried, reaching out towards his friend. “Sebastian, I-I’m sorry, please. _Please,_ don’t tell—”

Sebastian jerked away from him. “Ye’re a mage? Ye’re a fecking _mage_?”

Hearing those words sent Fenris over the edge. His breath shallowed, his hands trembled as slushy snow filled his palms. He stared at them, stuttering between gasps until the gasps morphed into shaky wails.

“What’s going on? Creators!” Merrill burst into the room, helping a stumbling Rana in. She narrowed her eyes at Sebastian and went straight for the herb box. “Now you see why I didn’t want you in here, Sebastian Vael: he’s too fragile. You’ve upset him.”

A pang of remorse hit Sebastian’s gut. “That’s what ye were hiding all this time? Ye couldnae trust me with the truth? He’s like me family. _Why did ye not tell me? You kept me away._ ”

She threw down her spoon. “We _planned_ to when the time was right, but you’ve spoiled it now with your meddling—” 

“I’ve done no such thing—”

“ _Khalas!_ Enough!” Rana struggled to shout over them. “He has enough to deal with, and here you’re screaming at each other. Go shout somewhere else.” She turned her attention to Fenris, placing a hand on his chest. “Fen. Ya Fenris, it’s alright, please stay calm.”

“Rana he knows,” Fenris whispered through his tears. “H-He knows, _Ran,_ he knows, it’s over. He’ll send me away; I’ll never see you again. It’s all my fault, Rana. My Rana, I’m so sorry—” 

Sebastian’s jaw dropped. Because of him, his friend feared for his life. Fenris was obviously terrified and in a panic, believing Sebastian would give him a veritable death sentence. Fenris’s wild eyes locked onto Sebastian’s, and the sobs intensified. 

Merrill brushed past, handing Rana a mug. “Here, have him drink. It’ll calm him,” she said, before returning to her herb box. “We could all use some, I think.” Sebastian followed her.

“What happened?” he asked in a low tone. “Merrill, please. How did this happen?”

“All these years, the brands hid the fact that Fenris was a mage,” she replied. “He never knew they had channeled his magic into the brands. You’d best sit down, Sebastian. You’ll need to, there’s more.”

She was right in her assessment. Sebastian _did_ need to sit down for this moment. The realization that Fenris hid the truth about Rana was shocking. To realize that she, too, was a mage… it was all too much for one day. A bitter taste formed on Sebastian’s tongue. 

“How could ye?” he asked. “You’re me friends; I’d take an arrow for either of ye, and yet here ye are, hiding things. _Lying._ Fenris, what happened to ye? Why do this?” 

“‘Drawing lots,’” Fenris replied, voice still shaky. He’d just regained some composure, but it was fragile. “Do you remember? We were out on the Wounded Coast with Hawke a few months back, and you asked to draw lots to see who would turn in the mages to the Templars.”

Merrill’s jaw fell agape. “You said _what?_ ”

Sebastian squirmed in his seat. “I-I dinnae remember saying that.” Stony silence met his fib. 

“You wanted to sell them for the gold reward; how could I ever forget? And you said it to _me_ , Sebastian, knowing my past. _Me._ Tell me how I could ever forget that?” Fenris scoffed. “I’d thought you different from the rest of the world, but I was wrong about that: you view mages little better than animals. It hurt me too much to speak of it again.”

The words slapped Sebastian across the face. “Ye think so little of me as to believe I would _betray_ ye—”

“ _I don’t know what you’d do!_ ” Fenris’s accent shone through; he pressed his hand to his sternum and took deep breaths to will himself calm. “You’re my best friend, but you’re still a Chantry brother.”

Sebastian fell back in his seat. He should’ve said something in reply, but could only stare at the three of them in disbelief. Merrill shook her head and scoffed, retreating to her herb box to prepare the next round of tinctures. By the violent clatter of the spoon in the pan and the clinking herb bottles, he knew she was very angry. 

Rana was the first to speak. “Well, now you know the truth, and now you must swear to secrecy, Sebastian. Do you understand?” 

Sebastian nodded solemnly. “On pain of death,” he replied. “I swear it, on me family’s honor. I’ll carry it to me grave.” 

Fenris sighed and seemed satisfied with his friend’s oath. His shoulders released their tension as they discussed training to conceal their abilities. Merrill refused to acknowledge Sebastian, shutting herself in with Rana and Fenris for what was undoubtedly their first ‘un-magic’ lesson. Sebastian heaved a sigh and headed downstairs for another quiet evening in the library. He was grateful for the time alone to sort out all of the unexpected news. Eventually there was a clatter in the atrium. Merrill was juggling a tray of food, she slid a dish onto the end table for Sebastian, and continued upstairs. 

“Ye want help?” he asked from the door. She merely glared and continued on her way. 

“Fine,” he muttered to himself. He grabbed a book from the shelf, but his mind kept going to Fenris. When the Chantry bells rang eleven times, Sebastian found himself standing before the bedroom door. He summoned his courage and knocked. 

“I’ve come to apologize,” Sebastian said. 

Merrill opened the door, narrowing her eyes. “Oh, really, Sebastian? And how can I trust that you’ve changed your opinion of mages so quickly?” She slammed the door in his face. There was the telltale scraping of wood on marble as she propped a chair against the handle and walked away. 

* * *

Rana should have known better. 

Ever since they’d told Sebastian the truth, Fenris was increasingly anxious. He might have fooled Merrill, but she’d lived with him long enough to see the signs. His hands were always busy, either rolling sheets between his fingers or clutching the blankets in death grips. He jumped at every noise, startled easily. Words were harsh and sharp, temper short and hot. Sleep eluded him, and if Fenris did manage, he woke screaming. Rana heaved a sigh. Her heart ached for him; she would’ve given anything to ease his pain, but he kept pushing her away. 

“The remedies foster healing in the entire body, Rana,” Merrill said. “It heals the heart and mind, in addition to the body. Sometimes, they bring up old emotions and memories.” 

“But why does he shut me out, when we’ve gone through every step of this together?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes, the best thing we can do is give someone we love space. This is his battle, he’s healing from a lot of trauma Rana. We’re here to pick him up and set him on his feet again, when he needs it.” 

Merrill was right, she knew. Only he could work through this, and at his own pace, no matter how much she wished otherwise. Rana watched as he grappled with himself, stood by as he retreated farther into himself and seemed to be drifting further away. He’d lie on his side and stare at the wall, more often in tears than not. Magic lessons stopped, meals went uneaten. He refused to even talk. This would not do. There had to be an intervention.

It was a sunny afternoon when Rana took matters into her own hands. Still weak from her illness, she leaned on the banister to guide her safely down the stairs, she was grateful they were sturdy. The stairs in their mansion were, in Rana’s eyes, the grandest feature of the house. It was a double staircase, made of white marble and picturesque views from the landings. It didn’t make walking down the stairs any easier, though. 

“Easy,” Rana told herself, “I swear I’m getting over pneumonia. Thank God for dear Merrill.”

After a few steps, it was clear she wouldn’t last all the way. Rana sat on the step and eased herself down one by one, rounding the corner and scooting across the landing. Her head was clenching in time with her heartbeat. No manner of breaths gave her enough air, but she had to go on, for Fenris’s sake. She was almost down the stairs when she heard a gasp.

“Sweet Andraste, Rana,” Sebastian cried, rushing to her. He looped her arm around his shoulder and hoisted her up, half-carrying her into the library. “Ye trying to kill yerself?”

“S-Something must be done,” she said, breathless. “Fenris—” 

“What?” He set her on the chaise and sat next to her. “What happened to Fen?”

She leaned against the cushions, too winded to talk. Sebastian thrust a tankard of water in her hands, bidding her to drink. 

“I kenned it,” he said. “I _kenned_ this would lead to naught but trouble. That damned Merrill and her stubbornness—”

“ _You were the one that upset him so._ ” She even surprised herself by how loud she spoke. Brava for opera and resonating properly. “…You will fix this, Sebastian. You _will_ make this right, or so help me, I’ll hang you from the rafters and leave you there till spring. Have I made myself clear?” 

He nodded, eyes larger than a dinner plate.

“Good. You’re going to apologize— and not just any old apology. You’re going to help draw Fenris out of his darkness, and make up with Merrill.”

“How, Rana? I tried to apologize.”

She smiled. “Two words: royal kennels. Merrill told me there’s been break-ins in the Alienage. Wouldn’t a dog help her feel safer?”

He scoffed. “She can barely afford to take care of herself, let alone a dog.” 

“I’ll pay for it, Rana said.” She rolled her eyes at his protests. “It would be the perfect way to show how much we care about her. And if you’re involved in choosing it, all the better.”

Sebastian kept his face neutral. “A guard dog, then? And Fenris? Ye want a mabari for him?”

She blinked at him. “A…maboni?”

His mouth twitched from suppressed laughter. “A _mabari_ , it’s a war hound. Famous throughout Thedas for their ferocity.”

“And I assume these ‘mabari’ are large, if they’re war hounds?”

“Aye. As big as a man, almost, when they stand on their hind legs.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s not a dog, Sebastian. That’s a horse.” She shook her head. “No, too big.”

He elbowed her. “But Rana! He’s a warrior; he deserves a hound that reflects his prowess in battle—Hawke had a mabari, ye ken. Toby. Sired some pups at the Keep. Wouldnae that be lovely to have one of Toby’s pups?”

“A dog like that is too much for us, Seb,” she replied. “Even as a puppy, it could open Fenris’s wounds the moment it jumped on the bed, and _don’t_ tell me about Toby or Moby or Jacobi or whatever his name is. I don’t care if it was the last dog in Thedas, I refuse to have Marian Hawke’s grand-dog peeing on my bedroom carpet.” She crossed her arms. “I want a small dog for him.”

“He doesnae ken how to care for a dog—”

“I do. My family had a dog; I grew up with him. I’ll cook its food, help train it, everything.” She felt as if she were ten years old again, begging her parents to adopt a puppy from the animal shelter.

“But ye dinnae want a dog who’s ornamental.”

“It won’t be; it’ll be an emotional support dog.” It was too modern a concept for him to grasp. “Listen: in my…” she couldn’t say ‘world,’ “country, there are dogs whose job is to give comfort and support to their owners, to help them cope with injuries or ailments or difficult situations through companionship. It would give Fenris what we can’t. I know it would really help him recover.” 

Sebastian sighed. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head. “Yer mind’s made up, I see. I’ll go to the kennels today, look into a mabari for Merrill.”

“Wait, I’m coming with you.”

“Rana—”

“We have a _mission_ , Sebastian. What are those things you and Fenris go on? Quests? It’s a quest, with a time limit.” She took a deep breath and got herself to her feet, grasping Sebastian’s arm to steady herself. “Besides, if I’m about to become a mother, I’d like a hand in choosing my fur baby.” 

She wore her most beguiling smile, the one she used on Fenris to get him to change his mind, or weaken his resolve during a disagreement

Sebastian huffed. “ _Fine_ , ye temptress.” 

Yes! She cheered. He looped her arm around his shoulder. “If I didn’t ken ye better, I’d say ye cast blood magic on me.” 

Rana couldn’t help the giggles. His shushing made them even worse, threatening to throw the entire plan in jeopardy. Between how breathless she was from the stairs and how weak she felt from laughing, Rana was quite useless. She turned to see Sebastian, and, much to her pleasure, he was laughing, too.

* * *

He must have been slightly mad to do this. 

Bad enough Sebastian had let Rana talk him into such an insane scheme, but to bring her along to the Keep? A five-minute walk became almost twenty, thanks to her having to rest and catch her breath. He ran his hand through his hair. If anything in the slightest happened to Rana… They couldn’t even spend too much time out, for fear that the elves would wake and find them gone—

“Must we take all these stairs?” Rana asked when they arrived at the Keep. The grand marble staircase leading to the Viscount’s Keep had always been awe-inspiring, especially after being rebuilt after the First Battle of Kirkwall. The red and white marble were dazzling in the afternoon sun. 

“There’s a side entrance,” he replied, leading the way. The royal kennels were just outside the Keep itself, next to the gardens. They didn’t have very far to go. Rana relied heavily on Sebastian during the last leg of their journey, it worried him. He set her down on a bench to catch her breath while he spoke to the kennel master.

“I need a mabari,” Sebastian said, trying to be heard over the yapping dogs. “For me friend, it’s a surprise gift.”

The man chewed on what had to be the biggest wad of spindleweed Sebastian had ever seen, His cheek bulged with it, like a chipmunk. He flashed a smile, his stained teeth on display. “For yer lady over there, ye mean?” he nodded towards Rana on the bench. “She can come meet the dogs—”

“Nay, for someone else. Me lady—” Maker forgive Sebastian’s lies— “would like a small dog. But not a flippant slip of a thing, ye ken? A dog of substance.” 

The man scoffed a laugh, placidly chewing his herbs. “Aye, hounds I’ve got, but mabari?” He shook his head. “Reserved for the City Guard, those are.”

Sebastian untied the coin purse from his belt and pressed several sovereigns in the man’s hand. “I’m a good friend of Captain Aveline Hendyr and her husband. Like family. Could ye…make an exception?”

Using his connections and personal funds to obtain a dog—worse, a dog for a _blood mage_ —seemed rather unbelievable, but if this was what was required to make up with Merrill, so be it. They needed peace in the house, first and foremost. For the sake of Fenris’s and Rana’s health and their cherished friendship, the four of them needed to work as a team. The kennel master grinned and pocketed the coins, leading the way to the mabari enclosure.

There was an older mabari whose guard partner had passed in the line of duty; it would make an excellent guard dog and companion for Merrill. 

“There are bloodhounds, milady,” the kennel master said as he proudly displayed braying hounds. “Well suited for hunting. The harriers are smaller; ye can hunt hare and rabbits with them. And the otterhounds—”

“I-I really didn’t want to hunt anything,” Rana replied, nails digging into Sebastian’s arm as she willed herself on. The exertion was clear on her face. “I don’t kill for sport—”

“Do nobles not hunt in the North, milady? I’d heard the Antivans—”

Sebastian stepped in… “Me lady is delicate, serah. She requires something other than deerhounds and such. Is there nothing else? Doesnae need to be a grand dog.” 

“…The Keep’s ratter whelped a few months back?” Sebastian stole a glance at Rana, they nodded, and the man led them to an alcove near the storehouses. Sebastian and Rana’s faces lit up.

“Aye,” Sebastian exclaimed with a grin. “We had these in Starkhaven for hunting badgers. They searched the underground burrows for them. Called the dogs ‘terriers,’ from the Orlesians.” A small, black dog with a silky beard and skirt blinked up at him under bushy brows, surrounded by her wriggling puppies. 

“She’s direct from Starkhaven, messere. Good huntress; the pups have good instincts.” 

Rana squealed. “ _Yi!_ They’re perfect! Yes, you are, you pretty babies,” she said, crouching with her arms wide. Several pups bounded over to her. She laughed, cooing over them in Lebanese. “Sebastian. Boy or girl?” 

She was so beautiful when happy, he realized. He could see how Fenris fell in love with her; her joy was so pure and innocent, like a young girl. Infectious. He was so absorbed in watching her reaction, he nearly missed her question.

“Hmm? B-Boy, if ye dinnae want pups of yer own.” He knelt beside her, scratching a pup behind the ear. “I think I’ll take his brother.”

She looked up from the puppy she was holding, another scrambling up her leg for her lap. “His _brother?_ ”

Sebastian’s face grew hot. “F-For Cecily. I think she’d love one.” 

Rana smirked, a knowing look in her eyes. “Mm, is that so? Only _Cecily_ , you say? And how would you get it to her in Ostwick, by carrier pigeon?” The kennel master covered an obvious chuckle with a cough. 

Sebastian stared at her. “A boat?”

She lifted a puppy up towards him. “Could you send this little sweetheart two weeks on a boat, all by himself? This widdle baby boy? Hmm? This widdle wovebug?” 

It was the eyes, Sebastian decided. Cecily was merely an excuse; a flimsy one that Rana and the persuasive power of the Puppy Eyes pierced right through. 

“H-How much for the lot?” he asked, voice pitching. 

The kennel master named his (exorbitant) price, and they departed. Rana carried the basket while Sebastian walked the mabari, eager to save at least _one_ shred of his masculine dignity.

“They need braw names, our wee lads,” he said. “Names to make Starkhaven proud.” 

“I-I don’t know any Starkhavener names,” she replied. “And shouldn’t Fen name his own dog?” He patted her arm with a smile. He had a plan for this very thing. 

“Dinnae worry, lass, I’ve got it well in hand.”

The house was still quiet when they returned, Fenris and Merrill still asleep. Sebastian went to shut the door, and—Damn that mabari.

For a supposedly well-trained dog, the mabari had a horrible sense of discipline. It immediately yanked the lead out of Sebastian’s hand and took off for the atrium, nails tapping on the tiles all the way. It pushed every door of the downstairs open, inspecting room to room, before clattering up the stairs.

“Get back here,” Sebastian called in a low voice. “Oi! Dog! Come back! Heel!” What did the guardsmen say? “Erm… _Halt!_ ” 

“You said maboni choose their owners, yes?” Rana asked, following after him. She leaned over the basket, catching her breath. “W-What if it finds Fenris first?” Sebastian’s eyes went wide.

“ _Shite!_ ” He ran up the stairs after the dog, slipping on the slick marble as he rounded the landing. Down the hall he chased, right into the guest room—

“ _Fenedhis!_ ” 

He should’ve known things would’ve ended that way. The dog skidded into the bed with such force, it sent Merrill plummeting to the floor. She scrambled upright, waving the curious mabari away.

“How in the name of the Creators did you get in— _Sebastian?!_ What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to apologize,” he replied. “I hurt ye and Fenris both with me words and me reaction. I was frightened; I acted on instinct rather than logic. And me words were abhorrent; I’m ashamed of meself for them.” He took a step closer. “…I _do_ care about ye, Merrill. I ken we’ve not been close friends, but working with ye this past week—it showed me a different part of ye I never kenned existed. Ye saved me friends, and I will never forget it. Ye’ll always hold a special place in me heart for that. I humbly beg yer forgiveness.”

She was silent. For how long, Sebastian didn’t know, but he bowed his head and bent at the waist, exactly as he would’ve done for a highborn lady. He stared at the floor and waited for Merrill’s reply, praying he hadn’t created an unbreachable rift. He looked up. Merrill scratched behind the mabari’s ear, stroking its massive head with her long, tapered fingers.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “I’m glad you recognized it.” She gently pushed the mabari’s muzzle aside and sat on the bed. “…What you said hurt me, Sebastian. It won’t be easily forgotten.”

“I ken Merrill, I’ll regret it as long as I live.” He made to leave. “Apologies for disturbing ye.” 

“I accept your apologies Sebastian, she replied.” 

Sebastian stopped mid-step and smiled. “That’s all I could hope for, Merrill. Thank ye.” She nodded, absently scratching the mabari’s head. 

“So you got Fenris a dog? That’s fine; it will take his mind off of all that’s happened. You picked a good one: he’s very friendly, aren’t you, _dal’en?_ ” 

“Aye, I did, but not the mabari. That’s for ye.” 

Her eyes went wide. “For...me?” 

“Rana said there were break-ins in the Alienage; we thought a dog would keep ye safe. I picked him meself for you: he’s lost his master in the line of duty, and needs a companion.” 

“What’s his name?” she asked, still stunned. 

“Faron. The kennel master said it was Elvhen for ‘friend—’” 

“‘Like a good friend,’” she finished. Her eyes filled. “A-And you chose him especially for me?” 

“I did, because his name is true: Ye _are_ a good friend, Merrill, to all of us.” The tears spilled, and she covered her face. Faron nudged her arm with his nose, lying his head in her lap. 

“This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me, Sebastian,” she said through her tears. “Thank you.”

“We appreciate ye, Merrill. All of us. Especially me.” She rounded the bed and gave him the fiercest hug he’d ever known. Sebastian was stiff in her arms, at first, but he scoffed a laugh and reciprocated the embrace, patting her shoulder. 

Merrill broke away. “You said you got Fenris a dog? Where is it, with Rana?” Sebastian had quite forgotten Rana in the wake of his chase. He found her in the hallway linen closet. 

“I’m getting blankets to make beds,” Rana said. Her face brightened when she saw Merrill. “Merrill,” she said with a smile. “I see you met Faron…and that you’re getting along famously.” 

“You planned all of it, didn’t you?” she asked. “Sebastian said it was your idea.”

Rana shrugged. “You’re my _lethallan_ , what else would I do? You’re like a sister to me.” She took out a stack of blankets, her smile widening to a grin. “Saving people’s lives together does that, you know. And I _won’t_ take ‘no’ for an answer; I’ll sleep better, knowing you’re safe.”

“But it’s so generous, Ran. And the cost—”

Rana tsked. “ _I_ will contribute to my nephew’s upkeep, never fear, Merrill; I’d never drop something you couldn’t handle into your lap… not unless he’s a six-foot tall swordsman too stubborn for his own good.” She masked a wheezy cough with a feeble laugh. Sebastian and Merrill exchanged looks.

“Let’s give Fenris his gift and have you rest, Rana,” Merrill said. “You’ve exerted yourself quite a lot today. _Against my wishes_ , might I add.” 

Rana threw her shoulders back and took deeper breaths in an attempt to gain more air. “Totally worth it,” she said breathlessly. Sebastian took the basket of puppies to Fenris’s bedroom while Merrill worked to calm Rana’s lungs. This was a private conversation between them, the women weren’t needed. He perched on the edge of the bed.

“Fen,” he said to the prone figure on the bed, facing the wall. Sebastian wasn’t entirely convinced he was awake. “Fen, I’ve got someone here who wants to see ye.”

No response. “…Listen, Fen, please, hear me, I was frightened, i-it took me by complete surprise, Fen, finding ye that way. I was hurt that ye hid it from me, that ye didnae come to me for help when Rana came into her own magic, but I understand why. I would’ve done the same, had I been ye. She’s… she’s a light in dark places, Fenris; I could never fault ye for protecting her.” He patted Fenris’s shoulder. “It doesnae change what we have. It’ll never change that. I love ye like me brother; magic or otherwise.” The puppies whined, squirming their way out of the basket. Fenris picked his head up.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice rough. “Wha—” He sat up, staring at Sebastian, a dawning realization on his face. Sebastian picked up the puppy most interested in escaping.

“They’re from Starkhaven,” he said. “Two brothers away from their homeland, making a new life in Kirkwall.” Fenris blinked hard.

“Like us,” he said. “Two brothers—”

“That’ll never be parted.” He gently placed the puppy in Fenris’s lap. “His name’s MacTavish. And _here_ ,” he scooped up the whining puppy in the basket, “is yer nephew, Tomas. Tomas Malcom Archibald Vael.” He grinned. “Tommy for short.”

Fenris stared. “T-Tommy?” Sebastian nodded.

“And Tavvie, there.” He’d clearly chosen the right puppy for Fenris; it clambered up his lap and tried giving him kisses. “Now, he’s not a mabari—”

“I see that.” Fenris looked to the dog, and then to Sebastian. “What is he?”

“A terrier. They’re ratters and hunt b—”

“ _Ratters?_ ” His jaw dropped. “I’m a _warrior_ , not a farmer.”

“We use them to hunt badgers, Fenris. Ye ken how vicious those things are? He may be wee now, but he’s a braw dog, with a brave heart. He’ll be a good companion for ye, I ken it.” 

“…A big heart in a small package?” Fenris asked, smile creeping across his face. “Sounds like someone we know.”

Sebastian laughed. “Was her idea, ye ken? Picked him out herself.”

“Sounds about right.” His face brightened. I’ve always wanted a dog, and here he is, thanks to you two.” He blinked hard. “Thank you…brother. I’ll never forget this wonderful gift.”

A lump formed in Sebastian’s throat as he patted Fenris’s shoulder. Fenris scoffed and seized him in a hug, or, rather, as good a hug he could make with his bandaged arms. But the significance wasn’t lost on Sebastian. He wiped away his tears and held his friend close, careful not to squish the pups. For the first time in the six years of their friendship, Fenris gave him a hug, and it pleased him to no end. 

* * *

**Note:** I’ve been dangling this chapter like motivation to get through the difficult ones, like the proverbial carrot on a string.

My mother had a West Highland Terrier named MacTavish, nicknamed Tavvie, when she was young; Fen’s Tavvie is named in honor of him. 

And Fenris’s initial reaction has real life roots: when my mother and I rescued our puppy, Oscar, from a kill shelter, my father was initially disappointed. He wanted a big dog, and here was this little miniature schnauzer no bigger than the cat. Now he and Oscar are inseparable best friends. 

Here is Oscar: pizza crust aficionado, Mozart fan, and avid thief of socks and hearts. <3

[ ](https://ibb.co/rcQjwcX)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Khalas- enough  
> Lethallan: female friend
> 
> Fact I: The dogs mentioned here are Scottish terriers, which are a very ancient breed whose origins were lost to time. The first record of a dog similar to a Scottish terrier dates from 1436, and the breed has had many fans throughout the ages, including King James I, Queen Victoria, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Rudyard Kipling. And now Fenris, Rana, and Sebastian. :)


	21. Gratitude and Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my beta, AnnaLucia, and to all of you, my readers. Sending you virtual hugs and cookies! :) <3
> 
> Scroll down for a Youtube link of Rana's aria. Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Anders heaved a sigh as he picked through the remains of his campfire. The last of the dried bread was gone, as was the handful of jerky he’d found deeper in the cave in some hapless adventurer’s pack. He’d been so pleased to find it, even if only the Maker knew how old it was; boiled seaweed and whatever fish he could catch wasn’t much to live on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. 

_‘You think of food when your focus should be restocking our supplies,_ ’ Justice chided him _. ‘We need more drakestone and sela petrae. We must obtain more.’_

“We need food first,” Anders replied. “And warmer clothes; the nights are growing colder.” 

_‘Seaweed and fish are sufficient.’_ Justice replied.

“The seaweed is getting scarce, and I’m not catching fish often—” 

_‘You distract us from our purpose.’_

“I’m too weak to mine rocks, Justice. I’m wasting away. I’m buying what we need.” His filthy robes hung from his bony frame—Anders had always been thin and wiry, but now he resembled a walking skeleton more than the proud mage he’d been. His scraggly beard hid how gaunt his face no doubt had become. 

_‘We cannot return without rousing suspicion—’_

“We have no choice; I’m going back, and that’s final.” Anders gathered his meager belongings, shaking out the tattered, holey cloak he’d found with the dead adventurer and the jerky. He tied it around his shoulders; the shoulders ripped, disintegrating from dry rot. He pulled up the dusty hood and made his way down the beach towards the city, formulating his plan. 

The Templars were no doubt swarming the Undercity, whether in-person or through their many informants. Anders knew the Undercity well enough to enter undetected; if he was careful, he could use the sewers and one of the old mining tunnels as a testing area and living space. Money, though; _that_ would be a problem. Anders had no money to speak of on his person—he never carried much coin—and buying such a large quantity of supplies and food would be a considerable expense. 

_‘There’s the trap door into Hawke’s cellar,’_ Anders reminded himself, _‘I can access the vault—_ ’ 

No, damn it, he couldn’t steal from Marian, that was stooping too low; there _had_ to be another way to buy the supplies he needed... 

_‘Justice is hard, cold iron,’_ the spirit said, _‘it demands sacrifice for the sake of our cause. She left you for dead; is that money not your just due? Take what you need; she would never spend that fortune in several lifetimes.’_

Those words disturbed Anders, but what disturbed him more was that he actually entertained them, considered acting on them. Justice was right; Marian would never miss that money. He was homeless, penniless, desperate; if he wanted any chance of seeing his plans through, he had to use any means necessary. Anders _knew_ that, he just…

He steeled himself against the vision of Marian’s disappointed face and quickened his pace down the trail. No matter how quickly he ran, he couldn’t put distance between himself and her piercing blue eyes that lanced his very soul. 

* * *

Fenris couldn’t take it anymore. 

A week had passed since Rana and Sebastian’s surprise escapade with the puppies. Fenris knew the healing process would take time, and had borne it quite well, all things considered, but he was growing increasingly antsy; there were so many things to _do_ now. Training his puppy, Tavvie, for instance. Catching up on the veritable mountain of correspondence that had no doubt tripled for him in the library. These thoughts crowded around his mind, pressing in, but they were nowhere as suffocating or looming as Varania was. His sister’s imminent arrival hung heavy on his mind: if Danarius planned on ambushing him at their meeting, how would Fenris defend himself half-blind and without the brands? He could barely move, let alone fight in such a condition. The anxiety pent up in him, threatening to explode. 

“I have to go spar,” he tried explaining to Merrill. “They’re coming next week and I’m nowhere near ready.”

“Rest is the most important thing,” she replied for the fourth time that day alone. “Don’t try to pull open the bud to see the flower bloom before its time.” 

“ _I don’t care about flowers, I—_ ” his voice pitched as his accent shone through. Fenris took a deep breath and pressed his hand to his sternum, concentrating on the spell Merrill had taught him to control his magic. “…Don’t you understand? I have to relearn what takes months in a week, Merrill. Five days to learn how to fight without the brands. I cannot afford to wait any longer,” he said after regaining his composure. 

Merrill gave him a glance over her herb bottles. “You nearly died twice, Fenris. Forcing the body to heal from that before its time will only lead to more problems later on. Worrying tires the body and makes healing more difficult.” 

She wouldn’t budge on it, would she? He fell against his pillows with a huff. “Can I read my correspondence, at least? I need _something_ to do,” he replied. 

“Your eyes are healing; straining them will undo the progress the remedies made—” 

He destroyed his last shred of dignity and gave her his best Puppy Eyes, secretly grateful Sebastian wasn’t present to witness. Merrill heaved a conceding sigh and retrieved a small stack of letters from the library. He smirked, petting sleepy little Tavvie’s ears. 

Reading correspondence didn’t require movement, but it _did_ require eyesight, something he was painfully reminded of. Fenris blinked at the parchment, holding it at arm’s length, then bringing it back. He squinted to make out letters in the black blurs before him. “ _Venhedis,_ ” he muttered, “ _fasta vass—_ ” 

“Problem?” He didn’t need to see Merrill’s face clearly to note the smirk in her overly cheerful tone. 

“You know quite well what the problem is,” he snapped back at her. “I can’t damned read this.”

Merrill replaced her bottles in her herb box. “You’re wrong. You _can_ read it, just not now.” She plopped onto the edge of the bed and scratched under Tavvie’s chin. “Your eyes _are_ improving, Fenris, even if it doesn’t seem it. You might not shoot a guardsman off the ramparts of Starkhaven come spring, but you won’t be like this, I promise. Just be patient, like Tavvie.” She smiled, the puppy’s ears pricking up at his name. “He’s been a very good boy, waiting for his Da to play, hasn’t he? Yes, he has!”

Fenris knew what she was doing. Part of him was grateful for the distraction from his anxiety, while the rest of him felt tied in one place by his bandages. He absently dragged a knotted sock across the blanket, puppy chasing after it with a wagging tail. Perhaps Sebastian would return with good news, after collecting the daily correspondence. Or a miracle, Fenris wasn’t picky. Anything to avert the oncoming crisis with Varania’s arrival, because it _would_ be a crisis, no matter how many times Merrill assured him otherwise.

Sebastian returned with a valise of belongings, a sack of letters, and, perhaps most importantly, a wooden writing stand. “The Sisters use this in the Writing Room,” he said, plopping it at Fenris’s place at the table. He helped Fenris into his chair. “We can adjust it to yer height, so ye dinnae have to bend in half to read. For we’ve quite the backlog of correspondence.” 

It took the rest of the morning to sort and reply to the latest sackful of post. Thankfully, a good portion of the letters were for Rana, requesting her to sing at holiday banquets and soirees. She was very pleased with that news, especially since Merrill determined that she’d shown enough improvement to slowly ease into singing again. There were supply manifests, mercenary contracts, mundane campaign business. Fenris dictated while Sebastian wrote, to expedite the process. They were very nearly done when Sebastian frowned at a letter. 

“What is it?” Fenris asked, tossing a letter on the ‘supply purveyors’ pile. 

“It’s—I dinnae ken,” Sebastian replied. “I dinnae recognize the handwriting.” That immediately drew Fenris’s attention. 

“Who’s it for?” He kept his voice calm to not betray his concern. His eyes widened when Sebastian slid it across the table to him. ‘ _Ser Fenris of Kirkwall,’_ the letter said in an efficient, methodical hand. It contrasted greatly to the splotched, smeared interior. Whoever wrote this had folded up their letter before the ink dried, in a great hurry. That disturbed him. 

“What’s it say?” Sebastian asked. “I can barely read it.” 

“It’s nearly illegible,” Fenris replied, squinting. His nose nearly hit the parchment, it was so close. He embarrassingly sounded out each letter. “‘ _B-H-A-I.’_ _Venhedis!_ ” The blood drained from his cheeks, he nearly dropped the letter on the table.

“Fen? Ye alright? What happened?” Fenris waved him away and translated the Seheran.

_“‘Brother-_

_Ship delayed in Ostwick, not arriving until late Harvestmere. Bring reinforcements to our meeting, it’s a—’”_

They turned to each other. “…There’s another from her, I think,” Sebastian said quietly, indicating to a meticulously written letter in Common on the table. Fenris snatched it up, holding it close so he was able to read. 

_‘Varania Davros sends greetings to her brother, Fenris of Kirkwall_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Our ship has been waylaid in Ostwick for at least a month, due to the pirates plaguing the waters here; we are staying at an inn, for the time being. Ostwick is beautiful, in its own way—the double walls are as tall as the public baths in Minrathous; they’re awe-inspiring. The port is very busy, with tradesmen from all over Thedas. Carriages and wagons pass by our inn all day._

_Your nephew enjoys visiting the royal shipyards…partly for the apple fritter stall we pass, I fear. He loves apples as much as you do, and begs for fritters every day. They dust them with cinnamon sugar, as our mother did in the kitchens when we were little. Do you remember when Mataji would give us fritters to taste?_

There was a hurried line in Seheran, half crossed out: ‘Did you receive my last letter? He’s dictating this one.’

_I remain: Your sister, Varania’_

Fenris didn’t know how long he stared at the parchment. The words swirled inside his head, grappling for purchase, but nothing stuck except four words. Four horrific, terrifying words that left him feeling violated and cheated:

‘He’s dictating this one.’ 

His breath quickened. ‘He’s dictating.’ There was only one ‘he’ that would bother to dictate a letter, to use it to beguile and deceive. His fingers dented the paper, the world let go from underneath him and sent him spiraling into a panic. “It’s him,” Fenris blurted out. “I-It’s _him—_ ”

“Fenris—” Sebastian grabbed his shoulders. “Fenris, we kenned he would be a part of this—”

“ _She’s working with him._ ” His chest constricted. An unseen hand plucked a lutestring behind his sternum; ice crept up his wrists and fingers, covering the parchment in icy spiderwebs. The panic gnawed at him, no matter how many deep breaths he took. 

“Let go,” Sebastian said, gently prying Fenris’s hands off the paper. The letter was frozen stuck. He cupped his hands around his friend’s to melt the ice. “ _Think_ , Fenris. Would Danarius warn ye about himself if he was coming to capture ye?” 

The cacophony in Fenris’s head was too loud, leaving no room for his thoughts. “Yes. _N-No_ ,” he whispered. “I don’t know.” 

“We’ve received messages like this before, aye? Censored, rushed, as though Varania sent them secretly. Why do that, if she sought to betray ye? Ye ken what sort of man Danarius is; do ye not think he’d force her to do his bidding? To act as bait?”

It made horrible, terrible sense. Fenris wanted to retch. “W-What do I do?” he asked. It was a foolish question, he knew, but everything had seized up inside. Still wrapped in bandages, he felt helpless, he just couldn’t think. 

“Firstly, we calm down, we now have over a month before they arrive. Secondly, we plan,” Sebastian replied. “We make arrangements so that he cannae take ye. Varric, Donnic, Aveline: they’ll be there. They’re warriors, keen archers. It’ll be alright, Fen, dinnae worry; we’ll all be there for ye.” Fenris sighed with relief.

Sebastian changed the subject. “Ye ken, our friends have been asking after ye and Rana, anyway: I think it’s high time we have them over. It’ll be threefold: make arrangements, celebrate yer and Rana’s recovery, and to thank Merrill. Make it a surprise for her, she’ll like that, aye? She deserves a party, after all she’s done. Go tell Rana, I’ll send messages to Aveline and Varric.”

Just like that, Fenris found himself blindly following orders, grateful he didn’t have to think or make decisions. Sebastian helped him to the door and sent him on his way down the hall.

Fenris knocked on Rana’s door. “Ran, are you busy? I need to speak with you—”

Even blurry, she had no right to look so attractive in that nightgown, he decided. It slipped off her shoulder just so, her hair tousled from her nap looked like it had been disheveled by other, more amorous methods. The mere thought of it made his pulse quicken. She leaned against the doorframe, stifling a yawn. 

“You alright, _ya habibi_? I can feel the magic rolling off you,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. It only served to accentuate her bosom more. The words momentarily flew out of his head.

“I—” 

She cleared her throat and pointed to her face. “Eyes up here, Fen.” 

He startled, averting his eyes. “Yes, well, Varric and Donnic are coming to visit. Sebastian wants to help us throw a surprise party to thank Merrill—” she grinned.

“Ooh! Fetch my stays,” she cried, rushing to the chair to retrieve her dress. He followed her in, wide-eyed. He’d never seen her in just her shift, except when purchasing her clothes all those months ago. That felt like lifetimes ago…

“Here,” he handed the stays to her, voice pitching higher than anticipated. “…Where are you going?”

She poked her head through the armhole of her dark gray kirtle. “Shopping, of course!” 

“It likely won’t be for several days, Ran; Sebastian’s sending the invitations now—”

That did not deter her. She finished lacing and dragged on her matching sleeves. “Doesn’t matter. I’m baking for this special occasion; I need ingredients and supplies.”

He waved her hands away and tied the sleeves on for her, leaning in to see. She was so close now; the comforting scent of jasmine and orange blossoms wafted from her hair. How he would’ve enjoyed being able to clearly see the curve of her neck… or even just the laces would’ve been nice. Frustration set in; he couldn’t help scoffing a bitter laugh.

“I suppose you’ve never had a half-blind elf assist you in dressing,” his fingers fumbled with the buttons. “Apologies; Maker knows how ridiculous it looks—” Her hand covered his, effectively stopping his words. He looked up; gentle kindness radiated off her. 

“You’re right: I’ve never had an insanely handsome man help me dress. I wouldn’t mind having it become a daily thing, to be honest… but only if I get to return the favor.” She straightened him upright and kissed him, smiling against his lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist and returned her smile.

“Then I must hurry and lose these remaining bandages, so I can start dressing again,” he murmured. “Would you _really_ do that?”

Rana laughed. “I’d love to.”

“Be careful what you wish for, _jaanu_ , I might take you up on it.” He wasn’t one to use terms of endearment—he’d never done so with Marian, but it felt so natural with Rana.

“‘ _Jaanu?_ ’”

His face went hot. “‘ _J-Jaan’_ means ‘life’ in Seheran, and you are dearer to me than life itself. So you’re _‘jaanu,_ ’ ‘my life.’” Her eyes filled.

“Oh, Fen, how I love you,” she whispered.

Fenris kissed her, savoring the moment. He’d yearned for this all through his recovery. To feel her in his arms again filled him with the warmest joy imaginable. 

“You’d best go to market,” he said after a moment. “Before Merrill wakes.” 

“That would require you letting go of me, you know,” Rana replied.

“Never!” Even he chuckled at how sappy that was. “…Sebastian’s leaving to send off those invitations, you should go with him. Take Tavvie and Tommy for a walk, while you’re out; Sebastian will help you.” He hobbled with her to the stairs, watching her and Sebastian go. “Ran?” he called after her.

“Yes?”

“Can you make something with apples? I like apples.” She was too far away for him to make her expression out clearly, but he could feel her smile. 

“Certainly, Fen.” She and Sebastian continued on their way.

“…Ran?”

“Mhmm?” 

“Don’t tire yourself, stay with Sebastian; you’ve just healed. Take as much time as you need.” Her head bobbed in a nod and she continued crossing the atrium. “Ran?” The two figures stopped almost at the vestibule. Even from that distance, he could tell that Rana stiffened, probably with annoyance.

“Yes?” she shouted back, almost too sweetly. 

He felt too foolish to say what he really wanted to in front of Sebastian, so he merely waved. Much to his delight, she waved back, leaving him with what had to be the most absurd grin on his face. He was grateful no one but Faron the mabari saw, as he retreated to his bedroom and fell onto his mattress.

* * *

Merrill sighed and consulted her shopping list. She’d depleted much of her herb stores when caring for Rana and Fenris. Now that they were safely on the mend without risk of relapsing, she could visit the apothecaries in Lowtown to restock. She crossed the Lowtown Bazaar towards her favorite shops, humming a song under her breath. It was a beautifully crisp autumn day; the sweet scent of apple tarts mixed with fresh bread and roasting chestnuts, nearly chasing the usual stale, old smells of Lowtown away. 

A glint of familiar honeyed blond hair attracted Merrill’s eye. The tall man pulled up his hood outside an imports store across the bazaar, descending down the stairs into the chaos of Monday Market. Merrill dropped the bundle of mullein she was holding. 

“Anders?” she shouted, craning her neck to see. She was too short, even with jumping. Merrill pushed her way forward through the crowd, clutching her basket. “Anders?” 

“Fresh fish,” the fishmonger cried. “Caught today! Fresh fish!” 

“Anders?” She caught a glimpse of black robes under a flapping, tattered cloak. No ordinary mage—or layman, for that matter—owned such expensive black robes. She remembered when Hawke purchased those robes for Anders’s birthday. She sidestepped a merchant stall. “Anders?”

The man picked up his head, looking up from the loaf of bread he was inspecting, and Merrill gasped. It _was_ Anders, under that scruffy, patchy beard; painfully thin and unhealthy looking, but she’d recognize him anywhere. They locked eyes; Merrill took a step towards him.

Anders clutched the bread to his chest and ran.

“A-Anders? Anders, wait,” she shouted, chasing after him. Around the corner and down the flight of stairs she pursued him, into a sea of patrons in the bazaar. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she cursed, eyes frantically searching for him in the thickening crowd. Where was he? Where could he have gone—she caught a glimpse of the gray hood receding at the far end of the crowd. She shoved a man out of the way, continuing her pursuit. Across the square, round the corner—she pelted down an alley. Her breath was ragged, her pulse roared in her ears. Why was Anders running from her? It didn’t make sense. Was she mistaken, chasing after a strange man instead of her friend? 

Anders threw a look over his shoulder. He tore down a stack of crates, throwing them to the cobblestones, shards of wood and nails spraying across the alley. Merrill skidded to a stop. By the time she’d crossed the barrier, Anders was gone. 

Merrill leaned against the dingey whitewash of a tenement building, catching her breath. That definitely _was_ Anders, she wasn’t going mad. Yet it seemed impossible: she didn’t succeed in lifting the blood magic his captors had used on him, all those months ago. He couldn’t have survived that spell, there was no way, and yet—had this been one of Varric’s novels, she would’ve been chasing not a man, but a ghost. Of course, phantoms didn’t topple crates, nor did they make eye contact; for he _had_ seen her. Why had he run? What did he have to hide?

Merrill left the Lowtown Bazaar that day with herbs, supplies, and far more questions than she had answers.

* * *

Living with Rana was, in Fenris’s mind, a world within itself. A world whose fabric was one of music, color, and light, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Words were connected to songs, songs to emotions, shapes, colors. Music had become another language for them. 

That being said, the language coming from the music room that afternoon was unexpectedly harsh.

Fenris sighed at his long-overdue correspondence. As soon as the guestlist had been confirmed for Thursday’s party, he’d dedicated himself anew to his recovery. There was no way in Thedas he’d host such an important party in his bedroom, and so his first order of business was to walk downstairs. Aided, unaided—as long as he could prove to Merrill he could make the trip, it was fine. It didn’t matter if he felt like a cart had driven over him, even if he faked his way through it, it was enough. It was part of The Plan, after all.

‘The Plan,’ as Fenris called it, was the arrangements he, Sebastian, and Rana made in preparation for Thursday’s surprise party. Despite her sweet demeanor, Merrill was quite cunning, and always noticed even the smallest details. Hence why Fenris kept her busy in the library with answering correspondence, while Sebastian and Rana made party arrangements. He was grateful for the help—reading was still difficult, and while he had to explain the importance of supply trains more than he did dictating responses, Merrill was a competent secretary. It gave Rana time to sneak off to the bakery and create whatever treats she’d planned on making, since they had no oven at the house. 

Fenris always enjoyed when Rana practiced her music, but she’d been pushing herself hard lately, and was still recovering from her illness. She had no business singing—he _told_ her that, but she merely shut the door and promptly vocalized. It didn’t go well at first; three scales later, she was coughing.

“I got your point,” he called across the atrium. “You can stop proving yourself—”

“Let her be, Fenris,” Merrill said from across the desk. “She can sing a bit.”

“She can irritate her lungs and choke. I worry for her.” The scales began again with a vicious attack, increasing in velocity. Fenris rolled his eyes and returned to his letter. It didn’t help that it was in nearly illegible cursive, or that the noble who’d written it _clearly_ had no respect for proper spacing. Rana continued to sing the same fast passage over and over, which finally began to grate on him. Fenris growled in frustration and threw the letter across his desk, head in his hands.

“There’s worrying and then there’s smothering, Fenris, let her be,” Merrill advised. He shrugged, drumming his fingers on the table.

“She’s already annoyed with me.”

“A bit obsessed with that particular line of music, perhaps, but I wouldn’t say ‘annoyed.’” She melted the wax and affixed the seal. “Maybe ‘frustrated you don’t trust her to know her own limits.’”

“Oh, no. She’s annoyed. Rana wanted to b—” he stopped, as he nearly ruined the surprise. “She’s been doing too much, lately, and I told her so. She’s just healed from the lung fever, for Maker’s sake; it takes time to build up her stamina.” 

Merrill raised her eyebrow. “Sebastian’s more than capable of walking a dog. Why is she so taken with that, lately?” 

“I—” Fenris had never been a good liar, and resisted the urge to look away. “She’s training little Tavvie. Very specific technique from Lebanon, apparently.” They heard Rana launch into the same intense, persistent sequence of rapid notes. Thirty-seven of them, all on one breath. Impressive, even if she’d meant to annoy him with it. 

“Creators, that’s amazing,” Merrill said. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I _told_ you she’d stop coughing and would be able to sing; it’s helping to strengthen her lungs. And this song means she’s annoyed with you?”

“She explained it to me before. Something about lamenting her fate, but she’ll die and become a ghost to torment a tyrant.” His mouth twitched at Merrill’s wide eyes. “And you thought she was just practicing. She’s been calling me a tyrant for the past ten minutes!”

Merrill laughed. “Perhaps so, but it’s the nicest sounding insult I’ve heard.” He, too, laughed; he couldn’t disagree with her there.

“What are you doing Thursday evening?” Fenris asked.

“Nothing.”

“Good. Then come have dinner with us.” He interrupted her protests. “It’s no different than every other meal you’ve had here, Merrill. Just be here at seven bells; we’ll take care of the rest.” Never in a thousand years did he ever think he’d be inviting the _Witch_ to dinner, let alone hosting a party for her, but there he was. With a headache pounding behind his eyes, he excused himself, heading upstairs, grateful to have escaped that conversation unscathed, and still in possession of his secret.

Thursday finally arrived, much to Fenris’s relief. Despite his best efforts, Merrill was growing suspicious, parsing every sentence for hidden information, but Fenris kept her so busy, it was the perfect distraction.

“I need these letters sent,” he said, pointing to a sackful of correspondence. “There’s a sovereign for the messengers.”

Merrill stared at the gold coin in her hand. He sincerely doubted she’d ever seen that much money in one place, before. 

“Where do I find these messengers?” she asked.

“The Guild of Messengers, of course.” He raised his eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the Guild of Messengers? _Everyone_ uses them.” Everyone, that is, in Minrathous. The closest Guild was some two months away by fast horse. Fenris turned away, struggling to keep a straight face. Merrill’s confused expression was priceless. 

“…I’ve lived here for years, and never heard of such a thing—”

Fenris’s mouth twitched as he used his best magister impression. “I want those letters gone before nightfall, am I understood? Go to the scrivener, if you can’t find the Guild. And I expect you to be back at the house by seven bells, appropriately dressed.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you hiding? You never talk like this…”

His common sense screamed at him to cease the charade, but it was quite entertaining. Fenris drew himself to his full height and leaned in slightly, just as he’d seen the magisters do on countless occasions. “The lives of an entire city-state rests in that canvas sack, Merrill. One late letter could throw the entire campaign into chaos. So.” He raised the letter he was ‘reading’ to his face, suppressing his laughter. “Go on, be careful,” he said, waving her away. “You’re dismissed-d-d.” By the time he heard the front door close, he couldn’t hold it in; he laughed so hard, he snorted. 

“ _Venhedis_ , she actually believed me,” he said to Tommy. “Wonders never cease, do they?” The puppy wagged his tail hopefully at his uncle, in attempts to earn a treat. Fenris narrowed his eyes at him.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” he said to the little dog. “It’s not your dinner time.” Tommy cocked his head to the side, the tips of his ear flopping. Fenris scoffed a laugh. “ _Fine._ Come on, your Auntie Rana baked treats for you yesterday. Don’t tell your father you got them from me, hm? Our secret.” 

They had time before Merrill returned. Rana enlisted him in prepping ingredients for the dinner, while Sebastian readied the dining room. By the time the Chantry bells rang six times, they were ready. How proud Fenris was to see his dining room table so beautifully set, it could easily rival any banquet in Hightown.

Fenris flashed a rare grin when his friends gathered in the atrium. He wasn’t a demonstrative man, but when Rana greeted their guests with embraces, it felt so…awkward, to just stand there. Especially when they were so pleased to see him. He pushed aside the instinctual avoidance, took a deep breath, and wrapped his arms around Varric. The dwarf froze.

“E-Elf?” He stiffened. “Elf, you alright?”

Fenris blinked back tears of joy. For the first time in his life that he could remember, physical touch didn’t burn like a sun under his skin. The enormity of it overwhelmed him. He was normal. He was actually _normal,_ and he didn’t _hurt,_ a-and this was what _normalcy_ felt like. What _wellness_ was like. Fenris wiped his face and laughed. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’m very much alright.” It was almost surreal

The front door closed with a bang. “Fenris? Fenris, I’m so sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t find the Messenger Guild, and then the guardsman gave me the wrong directions to the scrivener’s—oh my!”

Fenris rushed into the vestibule and threw his arms around Merrill’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “For everything, i-it’s—words fail to say how grateful I am. I owe you everything.” He let go and held her at arm’s length. There were tears in her eyes. 

“It doesn’t hurt?” she asked. He scoffed a laugh and shook his head.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Her tears spilled over. Fenris offered her his arm and a handkerchief. “Merrill of Clan Sabrae, may I escort you to the festivities planned in your honor?” She sniffled and blew her nose.

“You actually made me a party? With Varric and Aveline and Donnic? _All_ of you?”

“To thank you for all that you’ve done for us,” Rana said with a smile. “We love and appreciate you, Merrill. All of us do.” 

It was a memorable moment; for the first time in Fenris’s life, he actually felt well enough to enjoy the festivities and his friends’ company. 

* * *

Marian Hawke heaved a sigh, hanging her feet over the arm of her favorite chair in Varric’s suite. Out of all of her friends, Varric was one of the few still talking to her—Isabela was gone on her sea voyage, Sebastian and Fenris were off playing ‘Prince,’ while Merrill was doing Maker knew what with that mirror of hers. Aveline would stop by the house and call on her, but her visits were increasingly fewer. It seemed that the Merry Band of Misfits had all but unraveled right before Marian’s eyes. She slurped her mug of piss-ale and sighed again.

“Sigh any harder and you’ll blow the walls down,” Varric said from his desk. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He bit into a cookie, sending powdered sugar and crumbs falling to his desk. “Mmmph hmm?” He offered the plate towards her. She unfolded herself and crossed the room, not one to refuse free sweets.

“These are wonderful, where’d ye get ‘em, at one of them fancy noble’s parties?” she asked. Buttery sweetness danced on her tongue, delicately perfumed with orange. “I’ve never seen cookies in the shape of... are these herb bottles?”

“Mhmm. Rana made them, had the mold specially crafted at the smithy’s. She sent a plate home with me last night.” Marian choked on powdered sugar.

“ _S-She_ made these?” The pleasant taste in her mouth turned sour. “Why?”

He told her the whole story of Fenris’s illness and Sebastian falling down a cliff. Of Rana’s heroics and Merrill’s healing. When he got to the ‘thank you dinner,’ she couldn’t hold her tongue.

“Why didn’t ye tell me?” she cried. “Varric. _Varric,_ why wasn’t I told?”

He put up his hands in protest. “I just recently found out myself, Hawke. Choirboy said Merrill forbade visitors; you have questions, bring them to her.” That damned Merrill. Marian hastily thanked her friend and stomped out the door and across the common room. Her mouth puckered in annoyance, hand reaching for the dagger at her hip. She hurried down the steps to the Alienage and crossed the square, banging on the door. 

“Merrill,” she called, voice sharp. “Merrill Sabrae, open up.” A deep braying bark sounded from behind the door. Marian tensed. She knew that bark, what was a mabari doing in Merrill’s house, of all things? There was a sharp command in Elvhen, the barking ceased and Merrill opened the door. 

“Hawke,” she said, voice cool and taut. “I assume you need something? You’d never come here, otherwise. Come in, have some tea.”

Marian brushed past Merrill and the dog and plopped into a chair. “Why didn’t ye tell me about Fenris?” Marian asked. “Ye know he’s me—”

“No, he isn’t. He’s not yours in any sense of the word, Hawke. He hasn’t been yours for a while now.” Merrill stood tall. “I didn’t tell you because it’s none of your business.”

“‘None of me business?’ We’re friends, Merrill; friends tell each other things.”

Merrill scoffed. “Friends treat each other like friends, not like tools you take out when needed. You don’t know the first thing about me, you don’t _want_ to. You only want my magic for your suicide adventures. Rana and Fenris care about me. Sebastian, too. We’re _real_ friends; I’d do anything for them, and they, me.”

Marian scoffed in disbelief. “…She got to ye, too, hasn’t she?” She grunted in disgust. “That bitch, I _knew_ she was a blood mage, turning me friends against me—”

“ _Do you hear yourself?_ ” The question slapped Marian in the face. “Rana hasn’t done a thing wrong; _you_ were the one that turned your friends away, Marian. _You_ turned us all away, one by one.” 

Marian stared at her, jaw agape. No, it couldn’t be. The Merrill she knew would never say such a thing on her own; this was that Vint Witch’s doing, Marian was sure of it. That horrible witch that stole her beloved Fenris… “I’ll give her to the Templars for this,” she swore. 

“ _Don’t you dare!_ ” Lightning crackled on Merrill’s fingertips. “You come into my house and insult me and my friends? I won’t let you harm her, Marian.”

Marian gripped the dagger in her belt, eyes hardening as she stared the elf down. “Ye’re bluffing, ye’d never—” 

“Do you want to find out the hard way?” Merrill raised her hand, electricity pulsing. “…By the way, I met someone at market who would be interested in knowing what you’re doing, Hawke. He’s very angry with you.”

Cold dread coiled in her stomach. ‘He.’ Did Merrill mean…? No, that was impossible, Marian told herself. Anders was dead; had been for several months. “Ye’ll have to narrow it down,” Marian said, forcing her voice calm. “Lots of folks are pissed at me.”

“None bearing a spirit of Justice, though.” Merrill's smile was a twisted, sweet thing. “It’s Anders, Hawke. Anders is back in Kirkwall, seeking vengeance for what you did—”

“Stop,” Marian cried, breath quickening.

“You left him to die—”

“D-Don’t say it.”

“He’s looking for you—”

“ _Stop it, I say!_ ” Much to Marian’s dismay, Merrill was not cowed or frightened. She merely drew herself to her full height, defiance in her eyes, just like Fenris would’ve done. It made Marian shudder.

“You breathe one word against any of my friends to the Templars, and I’ll tell Anders everything. How you left him for dead and went straight to Fenris for comfort. How you ended up with that scar on your forehead from the wine decanter— _yes,_ Rana told me about that. How you had her up against the wall at the Harimann wedding—I’ll tell him, and you’ll see just how cruel Justice can be.” 

Marian stared at her, speechless. “I-I—”

“Don’t doubt me, I _will_ do it.”

From the determined glint in her eye, Marian knew she meant it. “Merrill, I—”

“Go now, Hawke. Don’t come back.” Merrill shut the door in her face, sighing with relief, leaving Marian alone with her regret, sorrow, and newfound dread. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rana’s aria: ‘Piangerò la sorte mia,’ from Handel’s Giulio Cesare.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1v_yhrQkcAw 
> 
> In this aria, Queen Cleopatra laments her fate and swears to wreak her vengeance on her tyrannical brother, the Pharaoh, who imprisoned her. Like many Baroque arias of its time, it’s written in ABA format: it’s traditional to embellish the repeated A section with trills, florid runs, and vocal pyrotechnics, unique to the artist. A musical snowflake, if you will. The section driving Fenris to distraction starts at 2:31, and ends at 2:40. Rana’s practice session was twofold: while she did wish to annoy Fenris, she had to practice that run. Falling behind even by a fraction of a beat could throw the entire piece off and end in a train wreck.


	22. The Songstress and the Swordsman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So this chapter is a bit delayed due to my finishing the artwork that goes with it. But good things come to those who wait, as the adage says. :)  
> I am eternally thankful to my beta, AnnaLucia, for her invaluable assistance and input. She really helped make this chapter and the artwork the best that it can be. And thank you, my readers; your continued support truly means the world. You're the best! :) <3
> 
> Scroll down for the artwork featured in the chapter!

_‘A—_

_The alliance between Vael and Ostwick cannot go through. Send me one of C’s letters immediately. Time is of the essence._

_-D’_

Alain Trevelyan stared at the letter in his hands, horror-struck. When he’d pledged his loyalty to Lord Drummond, he never thought it would lead to _this._ He’d always known that Sebastian Vael would die—it was necessary in order for Drummond to claim the throne. There were always sacrifices while gaining power, but Cecily? His mind and heart were racing.

He knew Drummond would rely on Madame D’Aubray’s poisons, they were infamous throughout the Free Marches, and Alain had been notified of a recent purchase from her. Poisoned brandy would do Vael in, but Cecily’s letter?  
He fell back in his seat, body shaking, breaking out into a sweat. 

He was holding the order to steal one of Cecily’s letters to forge her handwriting. Forced to be an accomplice in a murder. Worse: he was being ordered to actually frame his beloved for the crime. The thought of this betrayal made Alain repulsed.

Despite the bond they shared as childhood friends, Cecily had now become merely a tool, a means to his own success. He’d never planned on loving her, it just always was. But there also was a duty to fulfill to his family, and, most importantly, obeying Drummond. That now took precedence. 

There would be much for Alain to gain, should the Seymours fall from power and Drummond place one of his supporters on the throne. Perhaps, if Drummond was pleased with Alain’s efforts, he’d award _him_ the Ostwicker throne. As Teyrn, Alain could do as he wanted: Ally with Starkhaven on his own terms. Marry for love— 

But there was no ‘marrying for love’ for him. Cecily wouldn’t survive this, and the very thought of it brought tears to his eyes.

“For me family,” he reminded himself. “This is for them.” 

Since their last meeting in the gardens, Cecily had actively avoided him, focusing on promoting Sebastian’s interests in Ostwick, and cultivating a following for him at court. It had annoyed Alain to no end. 

But he had to fulfill Drummond’s demand. Gaining access to Cecily’s apartments would be the most difficult aspect, considering she was refusing him entry. Her maids were exceedingly loyal and would not be bought, nor would her guards. He was too well known for a disguise. All the conventional methods of entering—besides breaking in—seemed fruitless, until a very fortunate day occurred: 

Cecily’s birthday.

Such an opportunity could not be squandered. If he wanted any chance at the Ostwicker throne, he must obtain entry to her apartments. Alain chose his gift with care: he needed something novel, exotic. He carefully wrapped the wrought iron cage with a length of brocade and hurried to Cecily’s apartments. He gathered his composure, focusing on appearing cheerful and carefree.

“Announce me to Lady Seymour,” Alain said. The porter shook his head.

“Me lady forbade all entry today, me lord. She wishes to spend the day with the Teyrn—”

“But I’ve a gift for her,” he replied. There was a loud squawk from under the fabric, as though in agreeance. “Ye can’t bar an old friend entry on her birthday, can ye?” The guards and porter looked to each other.

“Ser Alain Trevelyan approaches,” the porter cried from the antechamber. Alain smiled and strode in, relishing the surprise on Cecily’s face.

“Alain?” she exclaimed. “What are ye doing here?” She wore a dark blue kirtle and matching sleeves, just the right shade to compliment her eyes. It took his breath away; the words momentarily left him.

“I, erm—” 

“Ye…?” A whistle sounded from under his arm. She blinked at him.

“Happy birthday, Cecily,” he said, setting the cage on the table. He carefully unwrapped it to reveal a brilliant green bird inside. Cecily squealed with delight.

“A parrot? Ye gave me a _parrot?!”_

“Direct from Seheron.” He couldn’t help but grin at her smile; she was so beautiful, even more so at that moment. 

“Hello,” the parrot said. “Hello, hello!” Cecily was awestruck, leaning in to watch the bird play with a bell Alain had tied on a ribbon. He wished to stay and be with her, but he was there on a mission. Alain slowly backed away from the table, moving quietly towards her desk as Cecily coaxed words from the bird.   
His hand froze when he found a discarded letter draft. Could he truly do this to the woman he loved? Could he live with himself after destroying her life to better his? There was no choice; he knew full well the consequences of disobeying Drummond.

“Give us a kiss,” the parrot was saying. “Ceci, I love ye.”

“ _What?”_ Cecily cried. “Alain Trevelyan, what’s the meaning of this?”

Alain’s eyes widened, fingers denting the parchment. “I-I taught the bird to say it loves ye, Cecily.” _‘For me,’_ he added silently, face hot. 

“…I already love someone, Alain, ye know that. I love Seb—”

He scoffed, unable to hide his bitterness; the years of love he had for her overcame him. Images of that wicked fiend kissing his Cecily flooded his mind’s eye, and Alain winced. Anger surged in him; he was angry at her and himself. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.

Alain folded the letter and slid it up his sleeve. “Cecily, just know, I’ve always loved ye and always will.” 

Being in her presence now was more than he could bear. He rushed out of the room before she could protest, not stopping until he was safely back in his own quarters. He removed the letter from his sleeve, hands shaking, tears in his eyes, as he folded the parchment around it for an envelope. Within the hour, the letter was on its way to Starkhaven, sealing his and Cecily’s fate with it. Alain was shrouded in remorse and disgust. 

* * *

Rana had only been to the Alienage once, when Fenris almost turned her in to the Templars. She admired the view from the seawall, the late September sun dancing on the water. It reminded her of the harbor in Beirut at this time of year. 

Beirut. The very word conjured images of her beloved family; Rana winced and turned away. Almost four months she’d been in Kirkwall, and she grieved for them every day. Were they still searching for her, she wondered? Had they given up and proclaimed her dead? _Was_ she dead? Rana still dreamt of the hospital often; sometimes, the crook of her arm itched where they’d inserted the IV. She could feel the needle moving inside her flesh, if she jostled her elbow in bed. 

She could tell Fenris none of this, of course; she didn’t even know how or if she ought to. He may love her with all his heart, but explaining her dreams or even the truth about Lebanon would almost certainly drive him away. Magic was one thing, but other worlds? She could envision the incredulity on his face— 

“Rana? What are you doing out here?” Rana startled; Merrill balanced three parcels in one arm, and four on the other. Faron trotted beside her. 

“Let me,” Rana said, taking them from her. The smell of dried herbs clung to the coarse cotton wrapped around the parcels. Merrill unlocked her door and invited her in. 

“What a pleasant surprise,” she was saying, sliding the kettle onto the hearth. “How’s Fenris? He’s still using the medicated wash for his eyes, yes? I infused it with magic, to help healing.” 

Rana looked around, shivering as a strange sense of dread washed over her. Cracked, mildewed plaster, badly patched holes in the ceiling. Buckets in the corners to catch the rain. It was a wonder the place hadn’t collapsed yet. 

“He’s improving slowly,” Rana replied. “Varric told me of a dwarven craftsman in Hightown who makes reading spectacles; we’re going tomorrow for Fenris’s appointment. He will finally read his letters without squinting.” 

“Thank the Creators for small mercies.” 

Rana nodded, eyes falling to the ajar door to what she assumed was Merrill’s bedroom. A giant mirror stared back at her, but it was unlike any mirror she’d ever seen, for this had no reflection… just a malevolence Rana had felt before. The same foreboding and oppressiveness she had felt in the storage room at their house. She shuddered, remembering that horrible, cold evil dripping down her spine, coating her like oil. It was Arzu. Merrill had kept that damned book to help restore her mirror. 

Rana forced her eyes and focus away from the mirror and onto her friend. “A-Are you prepared for winter, Merrill? Varric told me the almanac predicted a cold one.” She was saddened to see how terribly threadbare and shabby Merrill’s house tunic was. No better than a dust rag. 

“I’ll make do, I always have.”

Rana pushed herself away from the table, leading Merrill to the door, grateful to leave the mirror behind. “ _Yalla_. Merrill, listen to me, I insist upon this. We’re good friends now, and I want to gift you a few outfits for the winter weather.” 

“Rana, please, you’ve done enough to—”

“You’re getting busier now, and I want you to look like the successful, wise healer you are. You saved our lives, Merrill; Fen’s a changed man, thanks to you. He’s so much happier, lighter, we can actually be together now…” Rana’s throat ached as tears came to her eyes; Fenris had suffered so much from those brands. She’d never forget the pure joy in his eyes the first time he’d held her and not been in pain. It was the most beautiful sight in the world. “It’s such a little thing, compared to what you’ve done for us.”

They spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon perusing the dress shops of Hightown. Rana spared no expense, much to Merrill’s chagrin. 

“But it’s so costly,” Merrill whispered at what had to be their fourth shop, “Rana. You’re spending too much.” 

Rana held a bolt of emerald wool to her friend’s face. “I’m back to singing recitals, Merrill, it’s fine. And besides, it’s just a little thank you.” 

Merrill gave a sheepish smile and graciously accepted all further purchases… all ten dresses, ten tunics, undergarments, enough stockings and hose to make a bridge from Lowtown to Hightown, and matching hair ribbons. 

“What am I to do with these?” Merrill asked. “I-I don’t wear ribbons—”

“I’ll teach you; my sister had short hair like you, she did all sorts of adorable things to her hair. Roll your hair in rags to make curls, for instance. Can you imagine how beautiful you’d be with bouncy curls? Look at you, so elegant and lovely! You’re already turning heads, Merrill!” They heard the Chantry bells ring four times in the distance.

As much as Merrill wanted to stay and visit, she still had to walk home before dark. She departed with much thanks, carrying a stack of parcels and wrapped pies, Faron trotting beside her. Rana waved until her friend disappeared around the corner. She sighed a sigh of contentment and returned to the house. No sooner had she unlocked the door was there a duo of high-pitched, screechy barks.

“ _Taceve_ ,” a familiar voice said from behind the door. “Tavvie, Tommy: be quiet— _there_ you are.” Fenris nudged the squirming dogs away and helped with the packages. “ _Venhedis,_ Ran, I was going to send a search party for you. You didn’t exert yourself, did you? You’re alright? I missed you.” She returned his kiss and headed into the vestibule. Tavvie and Tommy wagged their tails so hard, their rumps wiggled with them. Rana bent to greet them.

“I’m fine, _ya habibi_. Here are my good boys! Go get your toys.” The dogs tore across the atrium with their beloved knotted socks. Rana watched them with a smile. 

“Merrill says hello, by the way,” she said, wrapping her arms around Fenris’s waist and pecking his cheek. 

“From all the parcels, I assume your ‘visit’ included yet more shopping. Come, Sebastian’s in the library. We’ve just sorted the last of the supply trains for the campaign.” Rana followed him to the library, greeting Sebastian with the customary embrace. He was surrounded by stacks and stacks of letters, maps, and ledgers. 

“There’s me lass,” Sebastian said with a smile. “Apologies, but me eyes are about to fall from me head after all the reading. I’ll be in me room.” He excused himself, taking the stairs two at a time to the guestroom upstairs.

“‘His room?’ Has Sebastian unofficially moved in with us?” Rana asked.

Fenris shrugged. “Who knows? He still has quarters at the Chantry,” Fenris said, holding a letter out and then drawing it back so he can read. The two fell into a comfortable silence. 

“Fen? I want to fix Merrill’s house. It’s in horrible condition.” He peeked over his letter.

“You _what?_ ”

“It’s falling apart; what will she do in the winter?”

He returned to his letter. “What she’s always done, go share rooms with Isabela.”

“And what of her patients? She has no place at all for them; she’s been using a rickety cot in the corner, Fenris. How is she to help others if she doesn’t have the means to?”

He set the letter down. “You realize she can’t afford such things? She can barely afford food and rent—” 

“I’ll pay. I can afford it.”

He sighed. “Your heart is bigger than your purse, Ran. Alright. I’ll speak to the elder, Reeba, all things go through her; she’ll tell me what permits are needed. And Varric knows builders.” She smiled.

“You’re such a good man, ya Fenris El-Khoury. Oh! We must fix our roof, too.” Fenris’s jaw dropped. 

“ _W-What?!_ ” 

“We can’t allow a child to live here as it is, Fenris. Half the floor’s missing in the atrium, and there’s a hole in the roof big enough for a dragon to fly through. It’s barely fit for _us_ , let alone your nephew.” 

“B-But it’s legally not my house—” 

“What will we do come winter, hmm? Camp in the wine cellar so it doesn’t snow on our beds?” She’d completely meant that as a hypothetical, yet by the way Fenris’s eyes went wide, she knew: that was actually what he did, come wintertime. She shook her head. “ _Venhedis_.” 

“Ran—” He heaved a sigh. “You’re right, just…” He muttered in Seheran. “We’ll talk to Varric, come morning and arrange something. Hopefully something that doesn’t include six years of back property taxes…” 

She leaned over the table to kiss him and crossed the atrium to the kitchen, humming. In spite of the heartache of not seeing her family, Rana was so pleased with how her life here in Kirkwall was progressing. Living with Fenris was akin to watching a flower bloom, petal by petal. It delighted her to watch him become whole. She could only imagine the depths of suffering and loneliness he’d endured, and was so grateful to be such an important part of his newfound life.

* * *

“Guard up! Come on!” 

Fenris pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, catching his breath. Learning to fight without the brands was proving challenging, even with a qualified teacher such as Donnic. Fenris never realized how much he’d relied on the brands in the past—half his repertoire of stances were gone now, and old habits, it seemed, died hard. He caught himself unconsciously reaching to cast a spell several times, it was like a reflex. 

“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath, dodging an incoming blow. “You can do this without magic.” 

He would not rest until he bested Donnic, Fenris promised himself. He didn’t care how long it took, or how loud the distraction of the roofers were as they repaired the atrium roof, his goal was to best Donnic that day, but his friend defeated him in a record three maneuvers, slapping him on the back with the broad of his blade. 

“You’re overthinking,” Donnic said. “And distracted; you’re better than this.” He winced as the hammering grew louder. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine, when the time comes.” 

“How? I’ve been doing this for a month, and I’m nowhere near ready. _They’ll be here in two weeks._ ” He sank onto the bench, head in his hands. “ _Kaffas_ , I’m ruined.”

“Oh, shush. You’re having a bad day, everyone has them. And you’re still gaining back your stamina, don’t forget. Go take a walk, or something. Clear your head, get out of the noise. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

Donnic would have said something more, had a pot not shattered inside the kitchen. A frustrated string of Lebanese followed. Fenris ran towards the cursing, finding Rana nudging a broken ceramic baking dish off the hearth and onto the floor.

“ _That’s it_ ,” she announced. “I’m _done_. This is the _second_ ceramic dish that damned fire has broken, ya Fenris.” The fire flared into the chimney from her anger, the candles burned down several inches. “Baking without an oven, cooking in the ashes like a barbarian: _I’m going to the smithy for a stove_.” His mind tried to wrap itself around yet another of her outlandish terms.

“A _what?_ ” She pushed the rest of the shattered pie into the waste pail and swept up the errant shards before marching for the vestibule. Fenris followed her. 

“B-But what’s a stove?” he asked, jostling her elbow. “Ran. What’s wrong with the fireplace?” 

If he didn’t calm her down, Donnic would see the candles flare, he had to protect Rana. Fenris took her hands in his and pressed them against her sternum, speaking in the calmest voice possible.

“Ran, we have roofers in the atrium, tilers in the hallway, plasterers in the guest rooms; can’t we have _one_ room intact?” Evidently not, by the look she gave him. She broke away and tied her cloak, calling the dog. 

“ _Yalla,_ ya Fen. Are you coming? We can take the dog for a walk.” She looked to him expectantly. A slightly embarrassed Donnic slid past, making his hasty goodbyes before leaving.

“Rana, do you realize how much time you spend at the smithy? Everyone else goes to the bakery to use their ovens,” Fenris said on the way. He trailed off at the glare she shot him.

“Every time it rains, my cookies and breads get soggy, Fenris. I’m used to baking in the comfort of my own home, with my own things,” Rana replied. The blacksmith greeted her like an old friend. She happily began sketching her design, while explaining about an iron monstrosity, with ‘burners’ and an oven. 

“How did the new designs for the cutters work, Rana?” the smithy asked. “I’ve had an increase in business with the wives in town all clamoring to buy them for their cookies.” 

“Great!” Rana replied, “I’ll have more designs for you soon!” Designing cookie cutters. Fenris looked at her in disbelief, with an awed smile; was there nothing she couldn’t do? He was so proud of her, even more proud to be with her. 

Eventually Rana was satisfied. The blacksmith had his (bizarre) order, the Lebanese Cooking Machine would arrive in time for Satinalia—with six ‘burners,’ an oven, and even a special metal frame to make it lighter for transport. She was terribly excited about it, her mood lightened considerably because of it. 

Fenris sighed in relief. He finally had his beloved back, instead of the terrifying woman in the kitchen that afternoon. They walked hand in hand down the street, taking in the festive atmosphere Satinalia in Kirkwall offered. Bright fabric garlands hung over shops and windows, the sweetness of roasting chestnuts and treats wafted from food carts. Fenris was truly enjoying himself, squeezing Rana’s hand tighter as they headed towards home.

A rather noisy, very excited throng of people stood outside a shop window, clogging the street. He overheard several patrons. 

“Have you heard? Ser Tethras is having a reading tonight. At the Drunken Dragon,” one said. “Book signing.”

The crowd was too thick to see through, so down the street they continued, Fenris growing more and more curious by the excited squeals echoing behind him. Another book stall by the Chantry had another throng, and another. 

“Come,” he said, leading the way to his favorite bookstore. “I want to know what’s going on.”

He stopped short. Before him was a very colorful placard in the shop window, _The Songstress and the Swordsman_ in blaring red letters. Stacks of books supported an enlarged version of the book cover: a tanned, bare-chested, rather handsome tattooed elf, embracing an enticingly dressed, buxom noblewoman. In the throes of obvious passion, she was clutching his leg—wearing the most scandalous Antivan hose he’d ever seen. 

His jaw dropped to his knees; he knew what this was.

Was he _really_ that muscular? He’d been training harder since his illness, but, _venhedis_ , he looked amazing.

…And Rana? Rana looked so alluring and tempting, he felt a warmth surge through his body—

“What is it?” Rana asked, catching up behind him.

Fenris’s eyes widened and he pressed himself against the shop window, blocking her view. “Nothing,” he said, voice pitching at the end. “A-Absolutely nothing—” She craned her neck to see around him; Fenris bobbed and weaved to block her. 

“What don’t you want me to see?” she asked. “Fenris—”

“Oh look, a dress shop! Come, I-I’ll buy you whatever you want.” He pointed at a storefront, taking advantage of her turned head to herd her away from the bookstore. Rana was not amused.

“What. Is. Wrong. With. You? It’s like you’ve seen a—”

Fenris knew exactly what was going to happen, and braced himself. She caught a glimpse of the display and unleashed a torrent of Lebanese, Tevene, and Common so fast he could barely understand it. He quickly grabbed her and pressed his hand to her sternum. Tavvie yapped and barked, no doubt reacting to the emotion and the magic they tried to control. Several spectators turned towards them.

“It’s alright, Rana, it’s alright, shhh,” he said. 

“ _What am I seeing?_ How could this be? Ya Fenris, is that really us? My career, my image: he’s turned me into a trollop, ya Fen! I’m nothing like this picture. Why would he—” 

“He’s written all of us into his books, Ran. It’s part of being his friend; he wrote an entire book series on Aveline and Donnic.”

She huffed. “I don’t care what he wrote about others, he has no right without our permission.” 

“No, he doesn’t, but it’s already done.” He held her shoulders. “We’ll go to the book signing, see what’s going on and if you’re dissatisfied, you can sue him for defamation. Alright? But, Ran, look. Look at all the people here; this book has garnered a _lot_ of interest.”

He scoffed a laugh. “At least this is just a foolish romance novel; I swear half of Hightown knew the color of my underclothes after they read _Tale of the Champion_.” Fenris was embellishing just to make her laugh. She half-smiled, linking her arm with his as they returned home to change.

The Drunken Dragon was very busy that evening, thanks to Varric’s event. Patrons abandoned their tables and the bar and thronged around a small stage, while a smooth, familiar voice began reading. 

_“‘Reyna Akhoura stood before the fireplace, her silk robes trailing behind her. The Rivaini Nightingale, they called her, the beautiful woman who could make angels weep with her voice. Or, at least, according to Ser Fendrick.’”_

Fenris nearly dropped his fork at ‘Ser Fendrick.’ He and Rana exchanged wide-eyed glances over their dinner. 

_“‘She sang a piece from her homeland, a song with notes reminiscent of pearls on a string. Shimmering notes that twisted and turned, flying down the scale with a velocity that could make heads spin. She sang for the elven lord and his guests, and they were so intrigued, they didn’t notice anything amiss. Nothing strange… until her high note turned into a blood-curdling scream.’”_

The audience gasped. Fenris bit back a laugh; despite her initial displeasure, Rana was leaning over the table in interest. 

_“‘Smoke billowed from behind her. Her robes had caught on fire. “Take them off,” Fendrick shouted over her screams, “Reyna, hurry, you’ll burn yourself.” She fumbled with the knotted sash, becoming increasingly panicked._

_“How in the Void did you tie this? Arms out.” He tossed the robes onto the floor, smothering it with a pillow, but in vain; his efforts merely set the pillow afire, too.’”_

Fenris drowned a snort in his wine, while Rana bounced in her seat from laughter.

 _“Yi!_ I can’t believe he wrote that in _,”_ she gasped between giggles. “I’d forgotten that part.”

“ _I_ didn’t; that was my favorite pillow,” he replied. “The chaise lounge will never be the same without it.”

Varric continued. _“‘Now free from her silken prison, Reyna ran to the well in her under-dress to fetch water. But, alas for Lord Fendrick—the girl had no aim whatsoever. He was soaked through, his tunic shlucked and sucked as he pulled it away from himself. Much to his dismay, she started crying._

_“Reyna, calm yourself, you’re alright.” He closed the gap between them and offered a handkerchief. Not wanting to seem awkward as she stood in her under-dress, he turned to leave, but she threw her arms around and hugged him tight._

_“Thank you for saving me,” she said._

_“I-It was nothing.” His voice came out as a squeak. Ah, but it most certainly_ was _something, by the way he relaxed into her. His heart was pounding, his breath quickened, and, for the first time in many months, there was a smile on the brooding elf’s face.’”_

Fenris huffed. “Of all the—How many times must I say it, dwarf? I do _not_ brood.” He didn’t mean for his words to be so loud; he’d intended it to be an aside, to no one but himself. The crowd turned towards him, murmuring in excitement and disbelief. Varric chuckled. 

“I _thought_ I saw you come in! Messeres, may I present the inspiration of the tale: Ser Fenris El-Khoury and Lady Rana El-Khoury? Elf, Songbird, come take a bow.”

Fenris’s eyes went wide. Before he could make a polite excuse, Rana jumped from her seat and whisked him away by the hand, straight through the crowd to the stage. Fenris felt his face go hot; he never liked being the center of attention, unlike Rana, who was at home onstage. 

There was a question and answer session about his and Rana’s life together. Many questions from men intrigued by the alluring Rana on the book cover, much to their wives’ (and Fenris’s) chagrin. They requested an aria, which Rana gladly obliged. One piece led to another until she sang an impromptu recital. In addition to Varric’s autograph, the attendees demanded Fenris’s and Rana’s, as well. They swarmed them both. This was all so surreal, so unlike anything he would’ve imagined. 

“You do a few of these with me, and you’ll be more famous than Hawke,” Varric said as he sold the last crate of books. “What do you say? It’s great for business.”

Rana autographed a book with a flourish. “We want a cut of the royalties, as well as appearance fees, Varric; I’ll make up the contract.” 

Fenris’s eyes widened at her boldness. “ _Ran_ , you can’t say such things—”

“Done,” Varric said. “We’ll discuss terms afterwards over pie.” He elbowed Fenris in the ribs. “Smart girl,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t let her go, elf: she’s sharper than most businessmen around here and certainly a vision to behold.” 

“Yes, I know,” Fenris replied. He finished writing a dedication, stealing a look at a glowing Rana. The soft light from the candles bathed her in gold, shadows cast on her features like a veil of the most delicate gauze. A smile beamed across his flushed face. He would _never_ let her go, never, not in this world or the next.

* * *

Marian Hawke was not having a good day. 

It all started at breakfast. Breakfasts were no longer enjoyable: her housekeeper, Orana, had always cooked the meals before she ran away. ‘Chased away’ was the better term for it, thanks to Anders and his resident demon. The girl had run from the house screaming in terror and was never heard from again. Now her post remained empty, and Marian’s steward, Bodahn, attempted to fill it... but failed miserably. 

Bodahn was a kindly, fatherly dwarf, honorable and loyal; Marian had always liked the man. He’d stood by her side through all the darkest parts of her life: her mother’s death, the Qunari invasion, breaking things off with Fenris—Bodahn was, perhaps, the closest thing to a father she had. Not, unfortunately, a cook. Marian poked the bowl of what looked like gray brains parading as porridge with a frown. She couldn’t bring herself to try it. 

“Milady,” Bodahn said, “I must speak to ye—” 

“After breakfast,” she interrupted.

“But, milady, it’s about me son—” 

“ _Later_ , Bodahn.” Her voice went sharp. “Let me be.” 

The dwarf stiffened, face shifting. He gave a curt bow and waddled away. Marian didn’t care. She waited until he left to wolf down the rest of her toast and take a swig from the brandy decanter. Two long swigs, but no one needed to know that. She heaved a sigh and steeled herself for a day of bookkeeping and accounts.

The fifteenth of the month had always been the day to shore up accounts. She counted sovereigns in coin purses, tallying up in ledgers. Halfway, she spotted a problem. 

“Bodahn,” she called from the office, “come here.” 

“Milady?”

Marian tapped the ledger. “Why is the ledger off by fifty sovereigns?”

Bodahn’s eyes widened. “What? _Fifty?_ I—” He frantically scanned the page. “I’ve added these figures meself, milady, I don’t understand.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re short fifty sovereigns, Bodahn. That’s more than what ye make in a damned year. Where did it go?”

“I—” He scrambled for an explanation, but didn’t have one. She lunged forward and grabbed his collar.

“You got somethin’ to tell me?” she asked, her face not three inches away from his. “I don’t suffer liars and thieves, Bodahn. Where’s me money?”

“I-I’m no thief, milady, I swear. Perhaps Orana took it before she left—”

“She left months ago, and everything has added up since then. Try again.” She shook him until his teeth chattered. “Hm? _Where is it?_ ”

“ _I-I didn’t take it_.”

She shoved him to the floor, growling in frustration. “Get out with yer filthy lyin’ tongue. I’ve no need for ye or yer brat.” Tears filled the man’s eyes.

“Milady, have mercy. I’m sure there’s a reason; let me look into it—”

“The only thing ye’ll be lookin’ at is the door on yer way out. Go.” He got to his feet and stumbled away. By late afternoon, he’d packed the last trunk and arranged for porters to fetch them.

“This is where we part ways,” Bodahn said sadly. He looked about the vestibule and sighed.

“Be glad I don’t call the city guard on ye for trespassin’, Sticky Fingers,” Marian said, leaning against the archway. “On yer way.”

“Yer mother would be ashamed, if she knew what her daughter’s become,” he said. “Ye’ve changed beyond recognition, Marian Hawke; I pray the Maker grants ye peace for whatever demon ails ye.” He left without another word, herding his son before him. Marian spat, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. 

“Good riddance to bad garbage,” she muttered. She heaved a sigh and threw herself into the nearest chair, head in one hand, and the brandy decanter in the other. Bodahn’s words came back to her. 

_‘Yer mother would be ashamed,’_ they said. _‘Ye’ve changed beyond recognition.’_

“Lies,” she replied, taking a swig. “Lyin’ dwarf. Better off without him.” After emptying half of the decanter, she felt too sleepy to be bothered. She threw her legs over the arm of the chair and snuggled against the cushions. 

There was a creak downstairs in the cellar.

Marian cracked her eye open. The only thing that creaked down there was the trap door to Darktown, but that would be ridiculous, because only she had a key; she’d just taken Bodahn’s copy—

Wait… she remembered Anders had one, too.

Her eyes widened, she heard Merrill’s threat echoing in her head. Had Merrill told the truth? Was Anders truly in Kirkwall looking for vengeance? W-Would he come after her again—

“Stop spooking yerself,” Marian whispered, “does nothin’.” She forced herself to the cellar door to listen. She heard something heavy drag across the floor; was that heavy bootfall? Her mouth went dry. She’d recognize the sound of those boots anywhere. She’d bought them for Anders years ago, when his own boots were worn through. 

She immediately lost feeling from her knees down and fell against the wall, stifling the scream clawing to get out. She staggered to the bookcase, grabbing a hollowed-out volume. Marian quickly retrieved the coin purse she’d stashed in it, hurrying to the vestibule. She threw her cloak around her shoulders, grabbed her sword from the weapon rack, and ran for the guard barracks. Marian didn’t stop until she was safely seated in Aveline’s office, gripping the chair arms to hide her shaking hands while she told her friend everything.

* * *

I give you... _The Songstress and The Swordsman,_ by Varric Tethras, aka what Fenris saw in the bookstore window. I wanted to create a more historically accurate take on a cheesy romance novel cover. The fashion featured here is based on Italian fashion from the early 1500s; I used Raphael's paintings as my references while drawing.


	23. A Day to Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this was quite the intense chapter! Thank you to my beta, AnnaLucia, for her invaluable help, as always. And thank you to all of you, my readers: your comments and kudos make me smile!  
> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains PTSD symptoms.

Alain Trevelyan paced the antechamber of Lord Drummond’s apartments. Ever since he’d sent out Cecily’s letter, he suffered day and night from guilt and remorse. It drove him to Starkhaven, on a desperate mission to stop the chain of events he had set into motion. 

“Announce me to yer lord,” he said to the porter, “I must speak with him.” The man blinked at him impassively. 

“Lord Drummond attends the Privy Council, me lord—” 

“It is of grave importance!” 

“But he is not here, me lord.” 

“I am Alain Trevelyan of Ostwick; I’m an associate of Lord Drummond’s. I have news on his... business ventures. Please,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in confidentially, “it’s a matter of life and death. Can ye not announce me?” 

The porter gave him a sympathetic look. “He truly isn’t here. He’ll return in two hours’ time.” 

“Can ye tell me, then? Was a bottle of brandy and a letter sent out recently?” The porter shifted on his feet. 

“I—” 

“Ye can trust me.” Alain dug a letter from his pouch. “Ye see? A letter, in yer lord’s own hand." 

“Aye,” he said. “‘Twas sent to a Chantry Brother in Kirkwall. A Satinalia present, ye ken.” 

Ice settled in Alain’s chest. “H-How long ago?” 

“Four days, at least. Should be arriving there any day now.” 

Alain stared at him. “What? But that letter I sent; it should’ve only arrived yesterday.” 

The porter shrugged. “It came by raven, me lord. Faster than a horse, especially through the mountains.” 

Alain shook his head in alarm and disbelief, backing away. He sunk onto the nearest bench, head in his hands. If he’d left straight away, when his heart had wanted to, he would’ve arrived in time. He could’ve saved Cecily, but now? Now he could only suffer in the chaos he’d sown with his own greed and ambition. He would never forgive himself, for as long as he lived.

* * *

No matter what she did, Varania couldn’t sleep. 

The closer their ship came to Kirkwall, the more restless and anxious she became. What if Leto—no, he was ‘Fenris’ now—never received her warnings, and he thought her in league with Danarius? What would happen to her son? Would Danarius torture him, if Fenris slew her for her supposed treachery? She had to prove her innocence to her brother, but how? _How?_ She wracked her brain for an answer. 

“Mataji?” Her son’s voice startled her out of her thoughts. She crossed the cabin to him. 

“I’m here,” she whispered, smoothing the blankets. “I’m here, Leto. Can’t sleep, either?” The boy shook his head. 

“How will Mamaji know what we look like? What if he can’t find us?” Leto asked. 

“He will, your uncle’s very clever. When we arrive, I’ll write him a letter that tells him what we look like.” Sadness settled into her chest at the thought of having to describe her appearance to her brother, when his image was so clear in her heart. 

“Will he be happy to meet us?” She smiled sadly, trying not to cry. Leto looked so much like her brother, with his soft green eyes and his shock of black hair. Her heart ached. 

“Very happy, I think.” She stroked his head. “He’ll be so happy to meet you.” 

“Will we be with him for Satinalia?” How could she tell him the truth, that they’d most likely spend the holiday in their rickety cabin or a freezing coach back to Minrathous? How does one explain why a child’s uncle could be in chains? Tears came to her eyes and spilled over.

Leto sat up in bed, alarmed. “Mataji?” Varania couldn’t look at him; every time she tried, she saw her brother, and it twisted the knife in deeper. 

“I’m fine,” she lied, wiping her face. “I-I’m fine, Lee, I just… wish your father was here.” This would be their first Satinalia without him; the wound his murder left was still raw and bleeding. Varania closed her eyes and held her son close while they mourned in silence.

The next morning, the captain announced the winds were in their favor, and they would disembark at Kirkwall any day now. For the first time since boarding the ship, Danarius smiled, and it was just as sickening as Varania remembered it being.

“Soon, I’ll avenge my son and wife. Your brother’s life for theirs.” A gasp escaped her.

“Y-You said you wanted him back alive.”

“Oh, I do. I need to break him again; it’s the least Felix deserves.” The man’s expression turned bitter, pained. “… I shall avenge my son,” he murmured. Varania had to lean in just to hear it. 

Danarius never spoke of his late wife or son; he kept his motives for his revenge close. To see this much emotion from him was unusual, disturbing. It humanized a monster, and for a moment, Varania saw a heartbroken man instead of the cruel beast he was. 

“Do you know your brother killed them?” he asked. “I charged him with protecting my son while we were in Seheron, and your brother let the Qunari horde kill him. Your _brother_ ,” he spat the word like poison, “stood by. Felix was fifteen then. Still a boy, and your brother robbed me of him and his mother both. She died broken-hearted afterwards.”

Varania’s eyes widened. As a warrior, she knew her brother was capable of many grim and harrowing things—she’d read of them in _The Tale of the Champion_ —but to kill a boy? No, he—he would never do that. “Seheron is a war zone, why would you take your son there? There was an invasion—”

“ _Do not speak to me of ‘invasions:’_ your brother had a duty and he failed in it; I will see him duly punished. He has cost me dearly.”

She was sure he would strike her down or punish her for her boldness, that Leto would become an orphan then and there. She never should’ve said anything. Varania berated her foolishness. She’d only wanted to make Danarius see reason, perhaps lessen his anger and her brother’s punishment, and yet she’d only made matters worse. 

Danarius left without another word, calling for the quartermaster. Varania shot from her chair and ran to her cabin, slamming the door behind her and sliding down it, face in her ice-covered hands. _What_ had she done?

Danarius’s punishment came in the form of denied meals for both her and her son. She wasn’t fool enough as to ask why. It broke Varania’s heart to explain to Leto why he’d go to bed hungry that night. She went upstairs for some air. 

The night was a clear one, the stars like millions of cold, white eyes, judging her. She couldn’t help but shiver under their gaze. 

“Kirkwall at starboard stern,” a sailor exclaimed. Varania tucked herself away in a corner while the sailors rushed to make preparations. At first, she couldn’t see what the man meant—the uninterrupted black of the coastline appeared the same since their departure from Ostwick. But it soon fell away to reveal a natural harbor with an island in the middle. Its giant beacon blazed in the night sky, casting shadows on the dour, severe building behind it. 

“That’s the Gallows,” the captain said, “where they keep the mages. Knight Commander runs it with an iron fist. They say she’s a madwoman.” Varania swallowed hard. If they locked up mages here, she feared her brother was among them. Would _she_ end up there, if found out?

“And those,” the man pointed, “are the Twins.” 

Varania had heard of Kirkwall’s other, sinister name: ‘The City of Chains.’ Now she knew why. Two giant bronze statues of weeping, collared men stood on outcroppings in the water; they bore massive chains from their necks, which connected back to the island. Her jaw fell. Magic thrummed behind her sternum at the sight, her stomach turned. A wave of nausea washed over her. 

“They used the chains to stop ships, should they need to, though they’re more for show, nowadays,” the captain said, completely oblivious to her internal panic. “Morbid lot, the Kirkwallers. Don’t blame ‘em, if they have to see _that_ every day.” They sailed past, Varania eyeing the deplorable statues with disgust. 

“You’d best pack your things, Mistress Davros. We’ll be docking soon.” 

She nodded, eyes wide as she returned downstairs and lit the lamp in her cabin. They were here, at last. After months—no, years—of waiting, they were finally in Kirkwall. She could hardly wait to see her brother; excitement and dread coiled in her stomach.

“Magister Danarius requires your presence,” one of the guards reported. She stiffened, folded tunic falling from her fingers. Unable to do anything but comply, she went to the cabin and found Danarius at the bay window, staring out into the harbor. 

“Take down this dictation,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “We must write your brother a letter.” 

Varania sat at the desk, trembling hand clutching the quill. She dutifully wrote every word Danarius said, not daring to stray too far, for Leto’s sake. The guards led her back to her cabin to continue packing. Varania sank onto her bed, still trembling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just signed her brother’s death warrant.

* * *

_“What do you mean, you can’t arrest him?”_ Fenris slammed his palms against his desk, nearly upsetting the inkwell. “Aveline. You’re the captain of the City Guard; you’re the only reason the damned city hasn’t fallen to pieces. _Why_ can’t you arrest him?”

Aveline Hendyr’s lack of conventional beauty was made up tenfold by her utterly terrifying demeanor. The withering glare she gave Fenris was enough to freeze water. “He hasn’t left the ship,” she replied. “And I can’t enter it without a search warrant.”

Magic thrummed behind his sternum. “Then. Obtain. One.”

“I’ve already submitted the application and personally went to the Port Authority Office myself, Fenris, but it’s Satinalia. The Port Authority’s stretched thin on a good day, let alone a holiday. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied until the warrant goes through.”

He fell back in his seat, hand going to his chest. Aveline could never know; he had to conceal his magic at all costs. “What am I to do?” he asked, voice pitching. His accent peeked through. “Wait for him to drag me from my bed?”

Aveline sighed. “I’ve already assigned Donnic with a detail of men to assist you when the time comes. And we have guards watching the ship. Danarius can’t get through—”

A nervous laugh escaped him. “You have no idea,” he cried, “he’s a _magister_ ; you think some fools in armor will stop him? I’ve seen him turn mighty soldiers against each other with a flick of a finger. He’s ripped Qunari in half with blood magic—”

“Fenris—”

“Despite your guardsmen, he sent a letter,” Fenris cried, waving the parchment in front of her. “He _dictated_ it, Aveline! He’s written to me! ‘ _Brother, we have arrived In Kirkwall. Meet me at the Hanged Man, on the twenty-fifth of Harvestmere—_ ’ Aveline, _that’s tomorrow_! _”_ He gripped his tunic hem and forced himself to concentrate on the spell to control magic. “I need air,” he muttered, jumping from his seat and hastening to the privy. Slushy snow fell from his palms and plopped onto the tiles beside him. 

“I’m not ready,” Fenris whispered. His throat felt tight from anxiety. “ _Venhedis,_ I’m not ready for this.” He’d dreamt of this day for years; it had been all he lived for, the sole fuel when he wanted to give up. Now that it had arrived, he wanted to disappear, screaming. Fenris’s head fell against the wooden door with a dull thunk and a sigh. 

By the time he regained his composure, Aveline had left, Sebastian apparently meeting her on the way out. He spoke of their strategy, the meeting place with Donnic, the arrangements Sebastian had made for contingencies. They were buzzing, to Fenris, like a swarm of flies that made his skin crawl. He retired without dinner, too worried to eat. He merely pulled the covers up over his head and wished he’d stop freezing the sheets and making them soggy. 

Sleep eluded him for most of the night. It was too loud in his head, all the hypothetical questions demanding answers. Possibilities and probabilities crowding in, making his head spin. If he did manage to doze, it was nightmare after nightmare of Sebastian selling him to Danarius. Or there was no sister at all, just Danarius asking to meet at the Hanged Man. They all screamed in Fenris’s head until he paced the room and threw himself in his armchair, praying a book would be enough to distract him from the tears threatening to form. 

The next thing he was aware of were two hurried voices speaking low at the door. He stirred in the chair, aching from the cold and stiffness. The fire had gone out during the night, and he’d forgotten his blanket. Fenris held his head in his hands, exhausted, and he’d been awake all of two minutes.

“Ye cannae come, Rana,” Sebastian said. “We’ve already discussed this.”

“But you can speak to him for me. I need to be there to help him after facing that man—”

“Ye cannae fight; how are we to keep ye safe?”

Fenris heaved a sigh and shuffled across the room for his spectacles, accidently walking into the nightstand. The voices hushed immediately. A Sebastian-colored blob opened the door and poked his head around the doorframe.

“Good morning,” he said, voice too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour it was. “We were just about to wake ye, Fen. Merrill and Varric will be here in an hour; I suggest getting ready.” Fenris slid his spectacles on with a sigh. 

“Good morning to you, too,” he mumbled. It was a lie; it most certainly was _not_ a good morning, no matter how many times Sebastian smiled or the dogs squirmed and barked about it. He winced at the sharp sounds, secretly wishing Tavvie and Tommy were cats or fish. Or some sort of silent creature, he wasn’t picky.

Breakfast with Varric and Merrill started pleasantly enough, despite the sense of impending doom. Rana had made fried apples to top his porridge—she’d even broke into the sugar and spice rations she was saving for Satinalia, just for him. He offered a feeble smile, his pride balking at her pity even if his common sense was grateful for it. The worry and doom seeped in, dyeing the gathering a somber gray, until even the porridge became bitter on his tongue. Silence settled on the table, smothering it. Eventually Fenris pushed himself away, strapping on his longsword to distract himself.

“We’ll watch her, Elf, don’t worry,” Varric said, following him. “We’ll keep her safe.”

“Thank you,” he replied. His voice felt so strange and hollow. It didn’t bode well. He pressed on. “I truly appreciate it, Varric.”

“Be safe, _lethallin,_ ” Merrill said, embracing him, “Elgar’nan guide your blade.” Sebastian quietly slipped past to string his bow while Rana threw her arms around Fenris’s shoulders.

“I’ll be praying for you,” she whispered, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “Ya Fen. I’ll pray to your god and mine for your victory.” He kissed her forehead in thanks.

“You are my world,” he said. “No matter what happens, I want you to know that, Ran.”

“You _are_ coming back,” she said, face brave despite her eyes shining with unshed tears. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

A coal burned his throat. “Yes.”

“I have a bottle of Agreggio Pavali in the cellar, ya Fenris El-Khoury; we’re drinking it tonight with our friends. Don’t you make me come after you; because you know I will… I haven’t been cooking all week for nothing.” 

He knew her, she often used humor to mask her worry. Fenris laughed, so he didn’t cry. “Y-yes Ran, I promise.”

Sebastian tapped his shoulder, as a reminder of their departure. Fenris stiffened in Rana’s embrace. He blinked hard and kissed her deeply before letting go.

He couldn’t turn and look back at her: if he did, they would have had to drag him out the door.  
A strong arm went round his shoulders as they descended the stairs to the Chantry square. 

“Ye’ll be fine,” Sebastian said. “Donnic’s waiting at the Hanged Man for us. When did Varania say they’d arrive?” 

Fenris dug the letter from his pouch, scanning it as they walked. “Nine bells.” 

“Hm. Just enough time to catch the morning tide and leave Kirkwall.” 

Fenris’s fingers dented the parchment, he gripped so hard. There was more talk of strategy, important strategy that he should’ve been listening to, but he couldn’t. His thoughts whirled in his head, whipping him into a frenzy of hypotheticals. If he had the brands still, he would’ve been glowing through his gambeson, he was sure of it. Fenris pressed his hand to his sternum, willing himself calm. It took all his willpower to suppress his magic through the Hightown Market and over the bridge.

There was a ruckus up ahead. They skirted the edge of the gathering crowd near the Hanged Man. “Halt,” a guardsman cried, “come no closer. There’s been an accident.”

Fenris and Sebastian exchanged looks. They shoved their way to the front of the crowd, eyes wide. The famed mannequin that had hung by its foot above the Hanged Man’s door had fallen, crushing several people under toppled, smashed crates. 

“Where is Ser Hendyr? Donnic? _Donnic!_ ” Sebastian shouted, waving him down. Their friend handed a wounded civilian to a guardsman and crossed the space to them.

“Never in my life,” Donnic said. “That mannequin survived the Qunari invasion; fire and explosions couldn’t ground that thing.”

“Ser Fenris of Kirkwall,” a voice cried. “I seek Ser Fenris of Kirkwall! Ser Fenris?” 

Fenris gripped his gambeson hem, his hands growing impossibly cold. He knew before even answering the summons who that message was from; his heart was pounding. He forced himself to cross the square towards the man. “I-I am he,” he replied. “I am Fenris of Kirkwall.” The messenger nodded and handed him a note. Fenris’s heart raced even faster. 

_‘Brother-_

_Meet me at the docks in front of my ship,_ The Gray Mew, _as soon as you can._

_-Varania’_

He steadied himself against the wall, realization hitting him. That was no accident at the Hanged Man; it was sabotage. Danarius’s doing. He’d wanted to cut Fenris off from his support, and was almost successful. 

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, rushing over to him, Donnic right behind. Fenris passed Sebastian the note, hands shaking. 

“He did it, he caused the accident,” Fenris whispered. “That was _him_ —” 

“Ye dinnae ken that.” Fenris wrapped his arms around his chest, hiding the ice curling up his wrists.

“That mannequin decides to fall the day we plan an ambush? _Does it even make sense?_ ” Fenris leaned his head against the wall. “Maker, he’s collared me. I have no choice, he has my family,” he cried. Sebastian herded him down the stairs, away from the crowd. Fenris couldn’t help the snow collecting on his fingers. 

“It’s alright,” Sebastian said in a low, hurried voice, gripping Fenris’s hands. “Fenris, ye must calm yerself, before others notice.”

“I have an idea,” Donnic said as he approached, reading the letter. “Ewald, Jelen, Wright: gather as many guards as we can spare and come with me. We’re going to the docks.” He touched Sebastian’s arm. “If he has Fenris’s family, we can’t arrive en masse. We’ll go ahead and hide. You two arrive afterwards, take your time. Distract him for us; when his back is turned, we’ll strike.”

‘Distract him?’ Fenris’s jaw dropped. “No. _N-No,_ I can’t. He won’t—”

“It’s the only way, Fenris; we need bait to distract him.”

“But—” The Chantry bells rang nine times in the distance. 

Donnic cursed. “Shit, we’re late. Guardsmen, on me! Move out!” With that, he led his detail down the stairs and out of sight.

Despite his effort to stop the flashbacks they seemed to intensify as they approached the docks. The sun blazed under Fenris’s skin just like old times; he jumped at every shadow. His common sense screamed and banged on his skull to flee. 

“Come on,” he said to himself. “You can do this; you must face him.”

He saw Donnic and his men scattered behind crates, blended into crowds. Although Donnic nodded in reassurance, Fenris shivered, despite all the layers he wore. A porter directed them to _The Gray Mew_. His eyes immediately latched onto a black cloak at the end of the pier, one he’d hoped to never see again. His knees went weak. The air burned out of him. 

“It’s him,” he said, breathless. “I-It’s _him_!”

An arm went around his waist to steady him. “Fenris, ye must stay strong—”

“ _It’s him!_ ” His magic manifested; a scream clawed its way up and out of his throat. Sebastian clamped his hand over his mouth. 

“Shh,” he shushed him, “stay strong. For Rana and yer family. Do this for them. He’s a man, Fenris, simply a man.” But Danarius was no man; Sebastian just didn’t understand. 

“Run!” A voice screamed in Seheran. A woman broke away from two guards standing behind Danarius and bolted towards him. “Brother, run!”

It all happened so quickly. Fenris drew his sword as Varania rushed down the pier, her lurid spring green cloak billowing behind as two guards pursued her. Fenris rushed forward; an arrow whizzed past his shoulder and struck a guard down. Varania startled at the dying man’s gurgle, and that’s where everything went wrong.

She paused.

One of the first things Fenris learned as a swordsman was no matter how cold you may be, _never_ wear a cloak to battle. It afforded enemies the perfect handhold. His sister understood that very lesson right before his eyes as a guard grabbed her cloak and pulled her to the ground. She shrieked.

“One more move and I’ll end her,” Danarius declared. He dragged her up by her hair and held his dagger to her throat. Fenris stopped short, Sebastian’s hand hovering over his quiver of arrows.

“Will he do it?” Sebastian asked hurriedly. “Fenris.”

“I—” Varania struggled, Danarius fisted his hand in her hair, never taking his eyes off of Fenris. A thin ribbon of crimson meandered down her throat, staining the soft green cloak below.

“Stop,” Fenris shouted, “don’t harm her.”

All the deep breaths in the world couldn’t prepare him for that horrific smile. “Predictable as always, my little wolf,” Danarius replied. “Come along, we leave with the tide.”

Three guards, Danarius. Two apiece would be doable, with Donnic and his men handling the crewmen; but no battle strategy mattered now, seeing his sister struggling and bleeding. 

It was over before it had even begun. There was no way forward but to surrender, before Danarius could conjure demons and the undead with his blood magic. If he wanted any chance of saving his family and returning home, he had to slay Danarius before he launched his attack. Fenris took a deep breath and sheathed his sword.

“For Ran,” he whispered. “For Varania. You can do this.”

“As soon as ye’re on the ship, we’ll strike,” Sebastian said. “Fenris. I swear it, we won’t let him take ye.” Fenris was so focused on Danarius, he could hardly process Sebastian’s words.

“I-If I don’t make it,” he could barely bring himself to say the words. “Tell Rana she’s my only love a-and ask her to forgive me.” 

The words felt strange on his tongue, like stones. Before he could stop himself, he raised his hands in the sign of surrender; two of Danarius’s guards came forward and seized him by the shoulders. They shoved him down the pier, Fenris closing his eyes as he fought off the resignation.

He dared not look back; bringing attention to Sebastian and Donnic would only guarantee their failure. He kept his head erect, biting the inside of his cheek. His eyes flew open when patchouli reached his nose.

“You are a fool to think you could ever escape me,” Danarius whispered in his ear, pulling him in by the collar of his gambeson, “You’ve taken everything I ever loved, and you’ll beg for death before I’m done with you.” Danarius’ eyes looked nearly white in his fury; Fenris felt like he was floating. 

“Bind him, seize his weapons. He’s highly dangerous.” The guards took rope and bound his hands together. Fenris caught sight of his sister’s bewildered face; her eyes latched onto the dull scars on his chin where the brands had been and quickly looked away. At that moment, an idea came to Fenris, piercing the fog in his mind.

Danarius hadn’t realized the brands were gone, had he?

He could work with this. Fenris allowed the guards to escort him farther down the pier. It was difficult to concentrate as he fell farther and farther into the numbness. The crewmen seemed like wax carvings as they made repairs on the ship, like toys he’d seen at shops. The cold air felt foreign and heavy in his lungs. He shook his head to chase the sensations away.

 _‘Concentrate,’_ he told himself. _‘You need to conjure a fire spell.’_

He wriggled his hands against his bonds until he grasped the rope firmly and cast the barest wisp of a fire spell, just enough to feel the smolder. He winced as it burned against his palms, but he couldn’t let go; the smoke would escape and alert the crew. He gripped harder, to ground himself in the present as he was dragged up the gangplank. 

_‘Fall apart later,’_ he thought. _‘Not now.’_

“Let me look at you, boy,” Danarius said, his bony hand gripping Fenris’s cheeks. It was customary for slaves to lower their eyes when addressed—Fenris found himself ready to do so still, years later, out of habit. But not that day. He fought the urge and stared Danarius down, earning himself a backhanded slap across the face. His signet ring would leave a welt, Fenris knew from experience. 

“Brazen. I’ll break you for that,” Danarius sneered. Fenris paid it no heed. He listened, the faint jingle of mail confirming his suspicions. Danarius still wore a mail shirt under his robes; any stabs with conventional blades would be futile. While pretending to be penitent, he scanned Danarius’s body for any obvious weaponry, head still bowed. 

A dagger hilt gleamed from his belt. Perfect. 

“Shall I scourge you first or beat you? I haven’t decided,” the man hissed. “Any preference?” 

Fenris did not deign an answer. Danarius grabbed him by the hair. “Answer me when I speak to you,” he commanded. Fenris glared at him, chest heaving. The angle exposed his brand scars from his chin all the way down his neck. The realization slowly spread on Danarius’s face. 

“Fetch the magebane—” he shouted.

Fenris’s ropes had finally burned through; this was his only chance. Despite his blistered hands, he quickly seized Danarius’s dagger and, in one fell swoop, plunged it in the man’s throat.

“You. Are. No. Longer. My. Master,” Fenris declared. Blood spattered him. Danarius stared in disbelief, clawing at Fenris’s gambeson while collapsing, gurgling in a puddle. In another fluid movement, he spun and stabbed a guard approaching him behind. 

The ensuing battle was swift. Fenris held the element of surprise; he used the momentum to take down the guards that were now surrounding him.

“Look out,” Varania cried. Another guardsman clattered up the stairs from the deck below, vial of magebane potion at hand. Fenris scrambled for a plan. It was too far to throw a dagger, and rushing him would be risky: the magebane could permanently damage and disfigure him. So he used the first thing that came to mind. 

Fire...again.

Between himself and Rana, Fenris had the least experience with spellcasting. All the training Merrill had given them was to suppress the magic. But he tugged the lute string behind his sternum and conjured a ball of flames. The spell sprayed both the guardsman and the freshly-caulked ship with uncontrolled fire. Much to Fenris’s dismay and surprise, the pitch caused the ship to ignite like tinder. 

_What_ had he done? Fenris barely breathed, staring at the burning sails before him. “Leto,” Varania screamed, running for the stairs. “My son—” 

‘Leto?’ His nephew. He'd completely forgotten him, and was beyond relief, hearing his friends call to him as they bolted towards the ship’s cabins.

“Fenris, stop!” Heavy bootfall and clanking armor came running down the pier. Sebastian and Donnic ran up the gangplank with a detail of guardsmen, rescuing passengers, apprehending crewmen, and escorting Danarius’s attendants out of the hold. They had already bound and subdued the rest of Danrius’s bodyguards. 

Sebastian herded Fenris onto shore. “Your sister and nephew are safe, but, Fenris, how did the boat set afire?” His words were miles away. Fenris stared ahead, eyes wide. The arming sword fell from his numb fingers, clattering to the wooden planks of the pier; the smell of blood, smoky salt, and old fish burned his nostrils. 

‘ _My little wolf,’_ Danarius hissed in his ear, ‘ _you were a fool to think you could escape me—_ ’  
Fenris could feel the phantom touch of those disgusting fingers crawling across his cheek, the hot breath fogged onto his neck, the smell of patchouli and cuticle oil turned his stomach.

Without warning, Fenris’s breakfast forced its way back up, and he nearly retched on poor Sebastian’s new boots.

“Shh,” Sebastian said, wrapping his arms around him. “Ye’re alright, Fen. Ye’re safe.” Sebastian attempted guiding him down the pier, but Fenris’s legs wouldn’t cooperate. It was like his knees had melted away in the heat of the fire. 

There was a clatter down the pier. Varania ran down the dock, her son in tow. Two guardsmen followed, bearing a giant trunk. 

“Brother,” she cried, arms outstretched. Fenris freed himself from Sebastian and threw his arms around his sister. 

“Thank you, Leto—I-I mean Fenris,” she said. “Thank you. You saved us.”

“Let’s get them home. Ye gathered everyone?” Sebastian asked the guardsmen. “Any idea how the ship caught fire?” 

All the skill in telling falsehoods must have gone to his sister, because Varania spun a lie so credulous, Fenris nearly believed it himself. She held him close, ignoring the bloodstains he left on her cloak and tunic, telling of an angry and deranged magister whose poorly aimed fireball caught the pitch on fire. 

And it wasn’t as though it was completely false: Danarius _had_ been angry, the fire _did_ set the pitch alight. Fenris _did_ fight for their freedom valiantly... she merely flipped the perpetrators, a detail even the crewmen couldn’t confirm, as they’d been busy with repairs. Fenris was simultaneously astonished and proud of her. 

The walk home was long, longer than Fenris remembered. Donnic escorted them home before joining his men and their charges at the Keep. Fenris wanted to sincerely thank him for his help, but his tongue had become a useless stone. Sebastian covered the courtesies; he praised Donnic and his men, unlocked the door, and ushered Fenris’s family in. Rana and the others jumped from the chairs they had brought into the vestibule. 

“Thank God, thank God,” Rana cried, throwing herself at him. “Are you alright? We saw smoke from the harbor.” Fenris couldn’t find the words. He weakly nodded, his sister taking over. 

“We’re fine, Fenris saved us, Sebastian and the guards saved many,” Varania said. “We’re shaken, but thankfully safe.” She bowed in greeting. “Apologies, I am—” 

“Varania,” Rana finished. “I am Rana; we’re so happy and relieved you’re finally here. Come, we have baths and rooms ready," she replied, keeping a wary eye on Fenris.

After a cursory examination by Merrill for injuries, Varric led the way to the guest rooms they’d prepared for the family’s arrival, Sebastian and Merrill hauling the trunk upstairs. Rana, meanwhile, took Fenris to the laundry room for a bath. 

“Let me help you,” she said, reaching for the lacing on his gambeson. 

“I’ve got it,” he muttered, shaking fingers struggling with the knots. “I-I’m perfectly capable of undressing—” 

“No one said you weren’t.” She immediately noticed the blisters, his hands felt rough and dry from the blood. Danarius’s blood, the voice in his head reminded him. He’d killed Danarius today; a foreboding set in, he couldn’t take a deep breath. 

He put everyone he knew in danger, with his actions. Gnaeus Danarius was an important man, his death wouldn’t go unnoticed in Minrathous. How long before House Danarius came for him? How long before the death threats and the kidnappings set in? The stubborn knot would _not_ cooperate— 

“ _Ya habibi_ ,” Rana said gently. Her hands cupped around his. He flinched. 

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he snapped, voice going sharp. His accent was completely apparent now. “I-I’m unclean.” Voices whispered poison to him, of what happened to fugitives that had slain their masters. What happened to their families: his throat ached at the thought of Rana in chains. All the blinking in the world wasn’t helping him. 

“You’re safe now,” she said, reaching for him. She pulled away, remembering his words. “Fenris. He can’t hurt you anymore.” 

“His family will,” he said, voice thick. “I-I’ve ruined everything. I’ve branded us as traitors, a-and they’ll kill us all. They’ll never leave us alone, Ran, they’ll drag us back in chains.” 

“No, Sebastian’s position protects us,” she firmly replied.

He held his face in his hands. “I-I’m an enemy of the state. _Why did I do this?_ I’m such a _fool._ ” 

“You did it to save yourself and our family, out of love and self-defense. Fenris, he would’ve killed you.” 

He laughed bitterly. “I have the legal rights of a chair: what makes you think they’ll believe me?” 

“You’re a free man now, my love.” 

“Really? Then why does freedom taste like ashes?” 

“…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love.” She extended her hand to caress his cheek. He flinched. He hadn’t wanted to, it just happened, but he could’ve slapped her, it hurt her that much. She untied the knot and shuffled out the door. 

“Thank you,” he said all-too-late to an empty room. He finished undressing and stepped into the bath. It wasn’t until now, with her gone, did he allow the copious, burning tears to fall.

* * *

Rana respected Fenris’s wishes and left him alone after he returned from his encounter with Danarius. From what Sebastian and Varania explained, it had been horrific; even with Merrill’s tonics to help calm him, Fenris continued to have panic attacks. He shut himself in his room and remained there for the rest of the day. Now, past midnight with the entire house asleep, she heard the muffled sobs from his bedroom. 

“I can’t leave it like this,” she muttered under her breath, dragging her robe on. She lit the candle and quietly slipped out the door, down the hall. Her heart sank once she entered.

Sitting on the bed, Fenris hugged his pillow to his chest, in tears. He sniffled, wiping his face. “Ran,” he opened his arms, pillow falling to the side. She went to him, barely setting the candle down before he squeezed her tightly. 

“I didn’t do it,” he said, “Ran. I didn’t kill them.” 

She stiffened. “Kill who?” she asked, praying his next words weren’t ‘Danarius’ or ‘his henchmen.’ 

“ _Them_. His family—I didn’t kill them, Ran. He blamed me for their deaths all these years, b-but I didn’t—” 

She sighed in relief. “I’m sure you didn’t.” 

“H-He ran. Felix ran too far ahead, straight into an ambush. I couldn’t stop him— took an arrow that nearly killed me, trying to save that boy, how could I ever want to harm him? A _child?_ I-I could never—” 

“I’m so sorry; words can’t even express how I sorry am that happened.” She stroked his hair and let him weep. “Fen. It wasn’t your fault, it really was out of your hands. Please, love, try and let it go, you’re alright now. You’re safe, I’ve got you.” 

“They dragged me onto the ship a-and his bony, disgusting fingers held my face. Every one of my nightmares came true today, Ran. I thought I’d die of fear.” 

Rana gasped. There were things that Varania and Sebastian had never mentioned. Tears pricked the back of her eyes at the thought of how much he’d suffered today. “You acted in self-defense; all the blame falls on him.” She reassured him multiple times. Eventually the tears subsided; soon he sagged against her in exhaustion. 

“Lie down, my love,” she said, guiding him to his pillow. Fenris was too tired to protest. The bed was narrow, which made her hold him even closer, he snuggled into her warmth and comfort. She stroked his hair, quietly humming the lullabies her mother sang to her as a girl. She waited to hear his sigh of relief and soon his breath evened; he’d peacefully fallen asleep. Rana gently kissed Fenris's forehead and drew the quilt up around their chins, ever so grateful to put the horrific day behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact I: A mew is, in fact, a seagull, native to places all around the world. They habitually gather around streams, the seashore, marshlands, and even the tundra.  
> Fact II: I looked up the tide tables for late October (or Harvestmere, as it’s known in Thedas) to accurately schedule the meeting at the docks.


	24. The Bitter Becomes Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and thanks to my beta, AnnaLucia. I am very grateful for your input and the fun we have together when editing. And many thanks to you, my dear readers: I truly love and appreciate you all <3 <3 
> 
> The notes for this chapter will be in the body of the text, so you can see pictures! And scroll down to hear one of Fenris's favorite songs.  
> Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Rana woke sometime after dawn. Her hip ached from the position she’d slept in during the night—one false move on the cramped bed would’ve sent her falling to the floor—but she didn’t mind. The morning sun filtered in through the leaded glass windows. Fenris’s hair sparkled in the light; Rana smiled, brushing it from his face. He looked so peaceful as he slept, handsome, certainly. Thankfully, he’d been too exhausted to have nightmares; or was it, perhaps, her presence, Rana wondered? He slept so soundly; he hardly moved all night. She snuggled closer and held him tighter. 

“Hn,” he said, stirring ever so slightly. His hand found hers under the blanket; Fenris stiffened in her arms, his eyes flew open. He struggled against her grip, half-asleep. 

“It’s me,” she whispered, grasping his hands. “ _Ya habibi,_ it’s me.” The struggling stopped immediately. 

“Ran?”

“I’m here,” she replied, kissing his hair. He relaxed against her with a sigh. 

“You stayed?” he whispered in wonder. “You stayed the night.” 

“I did.” He carefully turned to face her. The sheer joy and relief in his face made her heart swell. 

“Thank you so much.” Fenris leaned in and kissed her. Rana smiled into the kiss, initiating another, and then another, lacing her fingers through his. He gently rolled her onto her back, hand pinned against the mattress above her head. A warmth settled in her belly as he trailed kisses down her cheek. Rana closed her eyes. She’d waited months for this; dreamt of it, too, but her dreams paled in comparison to actually being in his embrace. Her heart quickened, wishing to stay there with him forever— 

She knew Fenris suffered a panic attack last time they’d tried intimacy. He’d felt ill, it was so severe. ‘Intimacy is painful, in more ways than one,’ he’d said. She thought it best not to chance another upset, not with Danarius’s death so fresh. 

“W-Wait.” Her protest sounded feeble in the moment of their passion. It certainly fell on deaf ears. She squirmed underneath him. “Fenris, wait—” 

“Hm?” He was so alluring, with his hair mussed and his sleep shirt askew. She practically melted from the desire in his eyes. 

“W-We shouldn’t—” 

“What?” 

“Not yet, not now.”

“But, Rana, I want you. Why can’t we...?” 

A squeal and laughter in the hallway interrupted them. Fenris’s brow furrowed. He huffed, rolling onto his side of the bed. Rana immediately went to the basin, splashing water to cool off the flush that had gone to her face, and followed her beloved to the door.

“What is going on?” Fenris asked, blinking to adjust to the morning light. A little boy sat on the floor, playing with the dogs, Varania looking on. 

“Brother,” she said with a smile. “Rana. This is my son, Leto; we never finished proper introductions, as Leto fell so sound asleep.” The boy scrambled to his feet and stood with his mother. 

“Hello,” the boy said with a stiff bow. Fenris’s face lit up. 

“H-Hello,” he murmured, hands unsure what the proper way to greet a child was. “I’m very glad you’re here.” He blinked hard. “Very, very glad.” Rana stepped forward and gave the boy a hug. 

“Did you know, your Uncle hasn’t stopped talking about this day for a whole month, right, _ya habibi?_ We have been waiting to meet you for so long; your uncle waited for _soooo_ long, his hair went white!” She drew out the last few words like an old man, and the boy giggled. Her heart smiled when Fenris took a step forward and knelt, wrapping the boy in his arms.

“Welcome, Leto,” he whispered. “Welcome home.” 

Rana wished she had had a camera so she could preserve that moment forever. The love in that embrace was so sincere, so joyful, it moved her. Even Varania brusquely wiped her face. 

“I see you’ve met your cousins,” Rana said cheerfully. “Tavvie and Tommy. They’ve been begging for a new playmate; I know you’ll have such fun with them.” The puppies wagged their tails at the mention of their names, and galloped down the hall to wake Sebastian, as they were wont to do each morning. And, just like every morning, a string of Starkhavener expletives announced his consciousness. 

“Ach, ye wee bastards, get off. Yer legs are like damned wee tree trunks; I’ll have bruises on me belly.” He clearly never saw himself in the dressing mirror, otherwise he wouldn’t have emerged from his room with his hair standing on end. “Hullo,” he said with a yawn, “I’ll start the kitchen fire.” He shuffled past and went downstairs, still half-asleep. 

“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Rana said. She took her leave to dress, pecking dazed Fenris on the cheek before departing. She shut the bedroom door behind her and smiled, wishing her time with Fenris could have lasted longer. 

* * *

Varania couldn’t stop staring at her brother. He was so…the term escaped her. In one way, he looked exactly as she remembered—those expressive green eyes, so much like their father’s. He had their father’s hands, too, his shoulders. But it was clear that Varania, despite the blood ties between them, did not recognize—or even know—the man across the breakfast table. 

It wasn’t just the white hair, she decided, although that was jarring. Last time they’d seen each other, he was fifteen, almost sixteen. Her brother Leto _was_ there, under all the formalities and the Southern manners, but well hidden. Like a treasure, glinting from the bottom of the sea… or hidden, like a bad secret. She wasn’t sure which just yet.

He stared at her as much as she did him, although furtively. Whenever she turned away, those eyes found her. What did he see, she wondered? A friend? A stranger? Both? He went quiet and withdrew as the meal continued; eventually he excused himself, holding his sternum, rushing from the room. 

“Shit,” Varric said. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” The others nodded sadly.

“‘It?’” Varania asked.

Rana and Merrill departed, no doubt to deal with whatever ‘it’ was. Thank the Maker Varania’s son, Leto, had finished early and ran off to play with the puppies. She had a feeling whatever conversation followed would not be for children.

“He’s been through a lot lately, sometimes he has panic spells,” Sebastian said. “Dinnae last long, but they take his breath away. From his time with Danarius, ye ken.” Varania’s spoon dropped. 

“No, Master Sebastian, I don’t ‘ken,’” her voice went sharp. “My brother neglected to mention that in his letters.”

“I-I’d thought, as his sister, ye’d ken what happened—”

“Last time I saw my brother, he was fifteen and had just won the position of ‘Danarius’s bodyguard.’ He used the boon to free me and our mother.” 

“…He was _fifteen_?” Sebastian gasped. “Still a lad? Sweet Andraste.”

She laughed bitterly. “Freedom was no ‘boon.’ Becoming a bodyguard was a reward; he certainly had the better end of the bargain.” The two men stared at her, strange looks on their faces. Sorrowful, confused, incredulous. 

“What?” she asked. “You have no idea what it was like. We had nothing: they threw us out onto the street with just the clothes on our backs—”

“And you thought he had it any better?” Varric cried. “ _He was a s_ —”

Varania interrupted. “He was a bodyguard, he was taken care of, provided for. But we had nothing. After my mother died—” She blinked hard. “You have no idea what I had to do, just to live. The degradation I faced, how far I stooped. The Chantry turned me away when I begged for help; they don’t care about elves like us in Tevinter. No one does,” she said bitterly.

“Varania, we’re so sorry for all that ye suffered through, too. We’re glad ye’re here, safe with us, now. But ye’re wrong about yer brother,” Sebastian said. “About him having the better of it. Not at all.” 

The story that followed could not have been real, for something that horrible could’ve only happened in a nightmare. And yet she knew, from what she’d gone through with Danarius, it had to have been true. Varania never dreamed her brother’s position had changed so drastically. She’d dealt with Danarius for the past year and had lost nearly everything. Hearing the truth, she couldn’t imagine how her brother survived five years and was still sane. Her head dropped low; her throat went tight from unshed tears. A wave of guilt washed over her, thinking of the resentment she had mistakenly held for her brother.

“So he remembers nothing,” she said in a half-whisper, “nothing about us.”

“Maybe. We dinnae ken, but he’s still working through it all. It nearly killed him,” Sebastian replied.   
  
Varania fell back in her seat. “…Then he’s gone. Leto’s truly—” she couldn’t bring herself to say it. The brother she knew was dead, yet still lived and breathed. How could she even begin to wrap her mind around what truly happened? Her trembling hands wiped her eyes as she wept. 

“No,” Varric said. “He’s still there; you now have a chance to start over.” He smiled sadly. “Take it from me, I never had a chance with my own brother.” With that, he pushed himself away from the table and left. Sebastian followed suit. As the meal was obviously over, Varania cleared the table as if in a trance, and began washing up. Halfway through, Rana came into the kitchen. 

“ _Yi!_ I-I wasn’t expecting you here,” she said, busying herself with making tea. “Little Leto is with Merrill in the garden. Here, I can do that; let me.” She set the herbs to steep and took up the scrub brush, despite Varania’s protests. 

“I was making Fenris some tea, would you like some? Lemon balm, valerian, lavender. It’s lovely, I think you’d like it,” Rana explained. “H-He loves it with honey, but he loves anything with honey; he has such a sweet tooth.” 

Varania raised her eyebrow. She recognized some of those herbs; her mother tended them in the gardens, used them in her remedies. “Yes,” she said, “after today’s events, I’d love some, too. Please, Rana, tell me: how has my brother been, really?” 

“He’s worried he put us all in danger,” Rana replied.

“But he hasn’t.” Rana sighed, rapping the brush on the side of the wash tub. 

“Will _you_ please explain to him, then, Varania? I’ve tried so many times; but maybe it was too soon.” Varania busied herself with arranging tea service for two as Rana continued scrubbing the porridge pot. Varania composed herself, brought the tray upstairs, and prayed her brother was feeling better. 

“Brother?” she asked. Fenris peeked out, breath shuddering and cheeks tearstained. She steeled herself from the sight.

“I brought you some tea,” she said as cheerfully, lifting the tray. He wiped his face and let her in. Varania took inventory of the room, a habit carried over from her days as housekeeper in Qarinus. It was a spacious room, suitable for the master of the house. Yet the bed looked extremely narrow for two people, and there was nowhere near enough storage for clothing. Where did his wife sleep, or did they not share a room? Were they on bad terms? They’d seemed fine earlier that morning... 

“Thank you,” he sighed from a threadbare armchair. She startled, nodding as she eased the tray down and slid into the nearest chair. 

“Rana said you enjoy tea with honey,” Varania smiled as she poured, “I do, too. It was insanely expensive in Minrathous, though. What a treat this will be.” Fenris merely stirred his honey spoon in his cup, clinking noisily, eyes wide and gaze far away. 

“I was fortunate to be downstairs when your friends, Aveline and Donnic, came by. They had very good news for you: they’re working with the Tevinter ambassador to purchase your freedom. Isn’t that wonderful? You’ll greet the new year as a free man.” The spoon ceased stirring. 

“I’m an enemy of the state, Varania, why would the Tevinters ever grant me freedom? House Danarius would never let me go,” he said. “T-They would want me punished; they’d kill me a-and all of us—”

“Not if they don’t want to cause an international incident and legal trouble. They’d cut their ties and move on. They’re not fools, brother.” She reached out and took his hand.   
“I understand Aveline is the Captain of the Guard; she explained this to us, these were _her_ words. Do you understand me?” She used the sternest, most unquestionable voice she could muster.

Her brother nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“The Captain of the Guard herself said it’s over. No more running,” Varania continued. “…You’ve accomplished something most will never do, brother. I’m so proud of you.” He genuinely looked surprised, as though the thought had never occurred to him before.

“Thank you, Varania.” He drummed his fingers on the table in thought. “ _Bahan_?” Her heart smiled to hear him call her ‘sister.’

“What does one do, when they stop running?” he asked. 

“Exactly what you’re doing: start over, set down roots. Make new memories.” She raised her teacup in a toast. “To starting over as a family. _Benefaris._ ” He toasted back. 

“ _Benefaris._ ”

Fenris seemed to transform, after that. He was tentative at first, but he soon launched into a volley of the Satinalia plans Rana and he had organized. He asked Varania’s opinion about foods, games, gift ideas—his shy quietness had vanished. For a moment, they were children again, Leto rattling off facts on his favorite chariot team and Varania leaning her head on her hand, smiling. It made her nostalgic, insufferably emotional. Her dreams were actually coming true; if only their parents were alive and with them; it would be perfect—She needed a distraction, or she’d cry. Varania’s eyes lit up when she noticed his lute in the corner.

“Ooh! You still play?”

“Er, not really—” She fetched the lute and plopped it in his lap, ignoring his hesitation. 

“Play something!” Fenris’s eyes went wide.

“What? _No!_ I’m terrible.”

“Come on, you were the best luter—”

“‘Lutenist,’” he corrected her. “I-I live with a bard; I must know the proper terms for these things,” he said smiling. Varania batted her eyelashes.

“Please?” She gave the most forlorn look she could muster. Her brother sighed dramatically, resolve crumbling. 

“Fine,” he muttered. He strummed a few chords thoughtfully. “What would you like?”

“Your favorite,” she replied with a smug grin. He bit his lip and began a plaintive tune, one she instantly recognized from their childhood in Seheron. The grin fell off her face, she nearly gasped.

“‘I will climb a mountain,

And go down into the dark caves,

My eyes to extinguish,

Never again to see the sun,’” he sang softly, neither a tenor nor a baritone, but somewhere in between. And almost out of tune, just as she fondly remembered him to be. It brought great joy to her heart. 

“‘I will go down to the garden,’” she harmonized with him. He nearly stopped singing from surprise, but kept going.

“‘To those dewy flowers 

To that scarlet rose 

To that early white basil.’” They finished together. He gripped the lute neck, blinking hard. 

“H-How?” he asked. “Despite it being sad, I’ve always loved that song, but I never told anyone. How did you know it?” She wiped her eyes. 

“Mataji sang it often, when we were children.” He said nothing, inscrutable expression on his face. 

Of course. He didn’t remember her. She smiled sympathetically. 

“You favor her, you know. Her coloring, her mannerisms: you’re so like her.” She laughed. “You even talk like her, at times. It’s uncanny.” 

“I remember...flashes. Dark braid, a pendant. I-I can’t see her face—” 

“Here,” she said, holding up the silver tray as a mirror and rounding the table to him. “She’s here. The nose, the mouth, the superior bone structure—we’re blessed to have beautiful parents, brother.” A metallic clanking and crash downstairs interrupted them. 

“Maker, what was _that_?” he said. They turned to each other wide eyed. “Rana, Leto, are you alright?” Fenris shouted, bolting down the stairs.

They hurried to find not only Leto and the dogs running and jumping with excitement, but also an entire crew of craftsmen hauling an iron monstrosity through the atrium. 

“ _Ya habibi_ ,” Rana cried, waving to Fenris. “The stove’s here early; I’m so excited!” 

“The _what?_ ” Varania asked. Fenris sighed. 

“A cooking hearth from her homeland,” he explained. “She apparently can’t cook on the normal hearth.” 

“ _No one_ can; it’s ridiculously narrow and impractical.” Craftsmen hauled counters and tables from the room. Fenris shook his head, eyes widening when they emptied the room and broke out the chisels. 

“Fen, can you keep the dogs out of the way? They’re going to dismantle the hearth,” Rana said, a kerchief tied over her nose and sporting the biggest apron he’d ever seen. 

“Stay. Out. Of. The. Dust. Rana. You must protect your lungs. Have Merrill and Sebastian help them.” She nodded, pecking him on the cheek before searching for their friends. His flustered expression and red ears were amusing. He cleared his throat, smoothing his tunic, voice pitching.

“Tavvie, Tommy, Faron, come. You, too, Leto: leave them to their work. He herded them outside to the courtyard. Varania seated herself on the bench beside her brother, watching Leto and the dogs play. 

“It’s a good name, ‘Leto,’” he said in Seheran, so the boy couldn’t understand. “‘He who is always happy.’” 

“It was a wish,” she replied, her heart sinking. He didn’t recognize his own name; it made her sigh. “Our mother’s last request: to name him after the bravest man we knew, so he too could become a courageous man.” 

“Your husband, then?” he asked. 

“No, brother: you. He’s named after you.” He blinked at her, surprised. 

“Why? I haven’t done anything—” 

“You saved us. Mataji, you, me: we have magic _._ They were going to use us for experiments—” she stopped herself, fearing it would send him into a panic spell. 

“Y-You have magic, too?” He gasped. “ _Venhedis_ , could it be true? You, me, Merrill, Rana—” His eyes went wide at his mistake. “Varania, please, _please_ don’t dare tell anyone; it must be kept a secret. Please promise me.” 

“Lives and dies with me, I swear.” A fugitive, a mage and a magister-slayer, keeping a house full of mages. Her brother lived dangerously, that was certain.   
  
He nodded slowly. “I’m sure you’ve heard what happens to mages here in the South.” That horrible prison in the harbor came to her mind’s eye, and Varania shuddered.

“M-Mhmm. I know; I’ll never forget.” The conversation lulled momentarily, Fenris eventually breaking the silence.

“By the way, do you have what you need for the winter? Warm clothes? Formal wear? We’re going to host teas and dinner parties for the holidays—”

“ _What?_ But the house is nowhere ready for nobles, brother.” She jumped up and hurried into the atrium. In Qarinus, she’d been used to preparing grand parties and feasts: her employer had entertained magisters and nobility often. Those days served her well now, as she took stock of her brother’s house. “It’s far too bare in here—Where’s Rana? Rana, where do you keep the decorations? If you are hosting holiday parties, we need to prepare properly!” 

The look of sheer dismay on Fenris’s face was quite amusing, especially when he followed them around the house as they searched for area rugs and paintings. He insisted that Rana stayed outside the storage rooms and supervised. 

“You have two holiday recitals, Chantry services to sing for, _and_ all the dinner parties, my dear Rana El-Khoury. Stay. There,” he ordered, pressing his finger to her mouth to shush her. He joined Varania in the search for suitable furnishings.

“You know, you’re just so adorable with Rana.” He rolled his eyes in disagreement.

“I am _not_ adorable.” He proved his point by making the pettiest scowl she’d ever seen. “Green or red rug for the atrium?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Mm… the green is more _adorable_ , methinks.” She chuckled, taking up one end. “Come on, Ser Scowl-a-Lot, let’s get your house ready.” 

“Wait. Varania, why did you drop the rug, are you alright?” Fenris asked. 

She smiled. “Brother, t-this is just all so wonderful, it’s like a dream, I-I had to stop and pinch myself.”

* * *

The preparations for Satinalia were, in Fenris’s opinion, far more complex than those he’d ever seen in Minrathous. Between his sister and Rana’s plans, what had begun as a quiet, private gathering had grown into a tempest, borne on a whirlwind of charity, tea parties, shopping, baking, deliveries, and decorating. This included the gaggles of noblewomen arriving every day to gush over the stove and its ingenuity. Soon it was the talk of Hightown.

“You realize your wife will be forever famous?” Varania asked him one mercifully quiet morning. “Between the singing and the stove, she’ll be a household name by the new year.”

“We’re not married yet.” He flopped back onto the chaise lounge, a tasseled throw cushion in his lap. Varania raised her eyebrow.

“Yet you share a surname?”

“I am the Commander-in-Chief of Sebastian’s army, and had to present our strategies to the Kirkwaller nobility. It was hard enough, being Tevinter. A Tevinter elf with no name? I would’ve never stood a chance.” He smiled fondly. “I’ll be an El-Khoury, soon enough.”

“I’m so proud of you, and I surely like her. You chose well,” Varania said. “She’s a good woman. Honorable, charitable. Oh! Did you hear? Rana’s hired girls from the bakery to help prepare treats for the orphans at the Chantry.” 

“She will certainly need the help, especially cooking on that iron monstrosity; I see Leto really enjoys the biscuits, I mean ‘cookies,’” Fenris replied.

“That boy’s eaten his weight in sweets since coming here.” He laughed. 

“Fen! Ya Fen, it’s here!” They joined Rana, huddling around her at the kitchen counter. She tapped a box filled with dark brown powder. 

“But what is it?” Fenris asked, peering over her shoulder.

“Cocoa powder, _ya habibi_. Heaven in a box.”

“What’s ‘heaven?’” The box leveled with Fenris’s nose, and he nearly sneezed. “Rana, is this the powder that cost so much?” 

She giggled. “Yes, Fen, remember? You shrieked like a woman opening the market bill. Leto, I’m going to need the eggs and the jug of cream, please. Be careful. And Varania, could you kindly grind sugar? We’ll need a lot of it.” His nephew departed for the larder, while Varania found the mortar and pestle. 

“If only I remembered the recipe my mother used,” Rana murmured, flipping through an old cookbook she had found. “It would make this so much easier.”

“Recipe for what?” Fenris asked. “Ran?”

“ _Bûche de Noël._ It’s Orlesian.” He watched in delight as she explained the tradition of the ‘Satinalia log,’ how her face lit up when she described her childhood memories. The candlelight danced in her eyes, casting golden light on her features. He loved when she spoke; her passion and excitement was infectious. Beautiful. A smile crept across his face.

“So you frost it with the chocolate, top it with the candy mushrooms, dust with powdered sugar, and it looks like a log in the snow. Hence the ‘Satinalia Log,’” she explained.

He reached over and gently pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “ _Main tujhe bahut pyaar karta hoon_ ,” he murmured in Seheran. She blushed at his tenderness and left for more flour.

“Does she know?” Varania quietly asked him. “What you said. That you love her so very much?”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She ought to.” Her mouth twitched from the laughter she held at bay. “But you were always shy with girls as a boy; I’m not surprised.”

“I am _not_ shy. I’m… _reserved_ , I don’t share my feelings often. There’s a difference.”

“‘Reserved?!’ At this rate, I’ll be old and gray like you before I dance at your wedding.”

He swatted her arm. “Liar, I’m not _old_ …I don’t think.” Rana had tasked him with whisking egg whites for something called ‘meringue,’ with strict instructions to not use force. The bowl could break, otherwise. 

“You’ll be twenty-nine, come the twelfth of Guardian.” He looked up from the eggs. 

“ _Venhedis_ , I’m ancient,” he sighed.

“Well, _I’m_ thirty,” Varania replied.

“You poor thing, my condolences!” He stifled a laugh threatening to break. “You have one foot in the grave—” With that, his sister jabbed his ribs with the bowl scraper; on reflex, he clamped his arm to his side and jabbed her with the whisk, egg whites and all. 

Her outraged laughter was worth risking all the jabs in the world, he decided, as he chased her around the counter with the whisk and parried attacks with the bowl scraper. For the first time since he could remember, he no longer felt an emptiness in his heart where his family should be, and that realization made him beam with joy. 

It was hours before the Satinalia Log was done. By then, the bakery girls arrived to help with the children’s treats. Fenris (wisely) ducked out of the kitchen and into the library for some wrapping, grateful to get out of the flour. 

“Sebastian?” There was his friend at the library table surrounded by fabric, dowels and twine, hard at work on… something. Fenris couldn’t tell what. 

“Ah! Good, I need another pair of eyes,” Sebastian said with a smile. “What color would ye make a dragon?”

“A what?” The wide linen strip before them bore little resemblance to any dragon Fenris had ever fought. It looked more like a banner than an adversary. “…Green?”

“Mm, shite.” Sebastian stirred his paint pot. “I dinnae have enough green.”

Fenris leaned in. “Blue and yellow, then. Mix them together.”

“Weren’t the dragons we’ve fought more brown than green?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes, but they weren’t Satinalia presents; looks like you’re making a special dragon for the Satinalia…what is this? A banner?”

“A kite!” Sebastian held it up proudly. “Ye see? The kite tail is the fire.”

“Ah.” It was clever, he had to give his friend that. Fenris found a paintbrush and assisted painting, as Sebastian regaled him with kite stories of his childhood. “Sebastian? Are dragons supposed to smile like that?”

“What?” Sebastian looked up from the wide grin he’d painted. “He’s a friendly dragon, of course he’d smile.”

“There’s ‘friendly’ and then there’s…” He searched for a synonym for ‘slightly insane-looking.’ “Why is one eye slightly higher than the other?” Fenris asked.

“Oh.” Sebastian cocked his head. “Oh dear. Wonderful. I wanted to make a kite the lad would enjoy, not laugh at.” Fenris scrambled for some positive points.

“No, Leto won’t laugh, it’s a good dragon; it’s just… unique-looking. He seems kindly, for a dragon. Approachable.”

Sebastian sighed. “Kenric the Kindly Dragon, striking smiles into the hearts of his enemies, one grin at a time.” 

Fenris sat back in his chair. “Well, we’ve certainly accomplished a lot today, haven’t we?”

Sebastian nodded. “Aye, that we have.” Fenris paused.

“I want you to know, there may be some trouble tomorrow. You see, I… couldn’t help myself, you understand? They kept calling to me.” Sebastian shifted in his seat.

“Fenris, what are ye talking about?”

“I tried to stop myself, I truly did, it just…I couldn’t.” He took a deep breath. “If Rana kills me tomorrow, know that I love you like a brother.” 

“Fenris! What is it?” 

“...I’m ashamed to say I-I believe I ate most of the cookies that were for the orphans.” His head fell onto the back of his chair. “I feel terrible about it, Sebastian, but they were just so delicious. What should I do? Even if I go to the market in the morning, I’ll never find anything to compare.” Sebastian burst out laughing.

“Maker, I cannae believe ye did that! Ye actually ate the orphans’s treats? Ye’ll surely be in trouble; tomorrow morning will be very interesting.” Fenris’s eyes widened.

“I daren’t tell her tonight; you know how she gets when upset. She’ll wake up the whole house. They’ll hear her yelling at the Chantry.”

Sebastian patted him on the back, pushing himself away from the table. “Well, me friend, I’ll surely say some prayers for ye tonight. Sounds like ye’ll need more than one.” Fenris groaned. 

“Well, I hope it works, thank you. Goodnight, Seb,” he said, slowly climbing the stairs. Fenris flopped onto his bed with a sigh.

“ _Venhedis_ , what a day,” he said to Tavvie. The dog bunched up his blanket in his basket and snuggled in. Fenris smiled and grabbed his pillow, peeking down the hall before knocking on Rana’s door.

“Well, well: a friendly, neighborhood Fenris,” she said with a smirk. “What brings you here, messere?”

“You,” he replied, following her in and tossing his pillow onto the mattress. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. “This. I couldn’t wait to hold you.” She leaned into his touch.

“I’ve been thinking of this all day, too. Perhaps we should make it a permanent arrangement.” He froze. 

“Rana, really? You mean it?”

“Indeed, I do.” He beamed. 

“But there’s not enough room for all my things…”

“We don’t need your things; I only want you, ya Fenris El-Khoury.” 

Fenris laid abed that night, staring at the brocade canopy above as he held Rana ever so close. Had he stumbled into a dream, a joyous dream he never wanted to end? But it _was_ real, he’d pinched himself several times, just to make sure. And, there was a less painful method, one that made his heart quicken. It was feeling Rana’s heart beating against his chest as she slept.

* * *

Sebastian had, truth be told, almost forgotten that he had rooms at the Chantry. He’d moved most of his belongings—tattered valise by tattered valise—slowly into Fenris’s guest room, until he had practically claimed the room for his own. He ought to have felt some compunction, he supposed; he rarely attended prayer service, anymore, nor did he hand out alms. His days consisted of campaign correspondence, helping tutor both Leto and the Chantry orphans, and cultivating campaign support. Dinner parties, luncheons, teas—they were his world now, not the simplicity waiting for him in the Chantry living quarters. Sebastian took the stairs two at a time, as he always had, to collect the last of his things. He was most surprised to find his quarters occupied. 

“And so the prodigal returns. You look well,” Elthina said from her place at the window. “I considered sending your things along to your new home, if you weren’t returning for them.” 

“Yer Grace,” he replied, bowing, taken by surprise.

“...Did you know your lady in Ostwick sent you a Satinalia gift?” she asked. “As did your betrothed.” Her voice held a sharp, metallic edge, betraying her anger. He stiffened. 

“Yer Grace—” 

“What have you been up to, Sebastian? What game are you playing with those poor girls?   
I thought you better than this.” 

“I’ve broken off with Flora, Yer Grace; I’m marrying another—” 

“Truly? Well, you’d best notify the Harimanns, because they came inquiring about ceremony dates.” 

“…The Seymours said they’d handled the Harimanns. I dinnae understand—” 

“Seems your left hand knows not what the right is doing.” She sighed. “I suggest you attend to this matter as soon as possible, Sebastian. I’ve never been fond of Flora Harimann, but even she deserves an explanation.” With that, she left Sebastian alone in his nearly empty room. 

He stared at the parcels on the table, two wrapped in rain-beaten canvas, and the other in fine brocade. Maker, he felt like he was sixteen again, juggling two lovers at once. He crossed the room and opened the brocade first. A note was enclosed, with a set of monogrammed, embroidered handkerchiefs. ‘F + S.’ 

_“‘Sebastian,_

_May this letter find ye well and in good spirits. Enclosed please find yer Satinalia present, made with me own hands. I hope ye carry them proudly. Looking forward to seeing you later this week._

_With affection, Flora,’”_ he read. He scoffed. “‘Me own hands?’ She bought these at the Hightown Market; I saw ‘em at the tailor’s shop.” He tossed the handkerchiefs aside. “…Perhaps Fen would like them. I dinnae ken.” He moved on to Cecily’s gifts with anticipation. The first parcel was of a small book and a letter. 

_“‘Me own,_

_Through this letter, I send ye greetings for as much joy as can be held within the fullness of me heart. Greetings which walk amidst the clouds, which the Sun and Moon bring to ye. May they find ye well, and in good spirits._

_I’ve sent along yer Satinalia gift; it’s me fondest hope that ye look on the pages of this book of hours and think of me, of the sweet time we had and will spend together… For I think of ye often, Seb. Ye’re ever on my mind; and when I sleep, I dream always of ye._

_Forever yers, Cecily,’”_ he finished the letter, heart quickening. 

The prayer book _was_ beautifully illustrated; each month of prayers featured detailed, fanciful illuminations of nature and love. Woodlands, pastoral scenes, courtyard gardens: symbols of long life, fidelity, love. Two swans paddling in the river together. Two trees sprouting from the same twisted trunk. Trellised roses climbed in intricate knotwork, while two lovers sat beneath their bowers. He set the book aside with a smile; he’d cherish it forever.

The second parcel Cecily had sent was a bottle of fine Antivan brandy, and while it was a lovely gift, he just… “Pity,” he said, “I just dinnae care for the stuff.” 

It would be such a shame to let it go to waste, however; someone would enjoy such a fine vintage, surely. He mentally reviewed every person he knew and their drink preferences. He snapped his fingers. Sister Agatha: she always had a decanter of brandy in her room for her weak lungs. Sebastian wound down the hall to her chamber and quietly rapped on the door. 

“Sister?” he asked. “Sister, ye in?”

The elderly woman poked her head out the door. “Oh! Sebastian! Come in, come in, dear boy. Happy Satinalia.” It was always cozy in Sister Agatha’s quarters; she kept a cheerful fire going at all times for her cold bones.

“I’ve brought ye something,” he said, “as a way to say ‘thank ye,’ for all ye’ve done for both me and the sisters over the years.” Her eyes lit up.

“Brandy? And such a fine vintage, too! I could never—”

“But I insist!” He smiled. “Sister. Ye were like a mother to me when I first arrived in Kirkwall, please, accept it with me compliments. May ye drink it in good health.” 

She fetched two glasses. “You’d best toast with me, then. To see if it’s not poison.” 

“I dinnae care for brandy, Sister—”

“Come on, hmm? For old times’ sake.” Sebastian tapped his chin. He was to meet Fenris and his family downstairs at ten bells, to pass out treats to the orphans and Sisters. He had a good half-hour, at least, till then. 

“Alright then, perhaps a wee sip,” he replied with a chuckle. “Just to see if it’s poison…” 

* * *

Fenris’s song: ‘So maki sum se rodila’ <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yo29j9kNBS8>

The Tevinter Imperium draws inspiration from the Byzantine and Roman empires, two of my most favorite eras and cultures in history. As such, Renaissance and Medieval English, French, or even Italian music didn’t feel appropriate. Those are the sounds of Antiva, Ferelden, Orlais… the South of Thedas. I needed a different feel for Tevinter music, and so went back to the source, as it were. 

This hauntingly beautiful, tragic folk song hails from Macedonia. It’s simple, yet the florid ornamentation gives it a unique beauty not often heard in Western European music. The artist’s interpretation and vocal color gives richness and the appropriate pathos to the poetry.

* * *

**Fact I:** Cocoa is canonically found in the far North of Thedas, in Par Vollen. When Iron Bull asks Varric to obtain some cocoa powder for him in ‘Dragon Age: Inquisition,’ Varric not only doesn’t know what it is, but complains at the high cost and difficulty of obtaining it. We can safely infer that, therefore, not many—if any—have had chocolate in the South, and that Rana probably spent an insane amount of coin on it. 

**Fact II:** Kites were introduced into Europe via trade with China, where they were used for a variety of amazing purposes (Including recreational and militarily)… but not until after the Middle Ages. But kite-like windsocks were well known and used in war. In 1326, English scholar Walter de Milemete published ‘ _De nobilitatibus, sapientiis, et prudentiis regum,’_ a treatise focusing on proper kingship and statesmanship. It depicts a group of knights flying a windsock-like kite over a wall to drop a burning incendiary onto the city below.

I based Sebastian’s dragon on one I’d seen on a dish in a museum, dating from 1630 Iran. It’s a dragon surrounded by fiery clouds. (photo taken by me)

[ ](https://ibb.co/s3KNmmw)

I named him Kenric. Those eyelashes just crack me up <3 

**Fact III:** Cecily’s gift of a Book of Hours was a highly popular gift choice in the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. A Book of Hours was a devotional prayer book, the most common type of surviving medieval illuminated manuscript. While most contain similar collections of prayers and holy texts, each book is unique in its decoration and illuminations.

This is a page from a Book of Hours, c. 1440, France

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

This is a detail from the same page. See the swans!?

[ ](https://ibb.co/y8DN0tp)

**Fact IV:** Cecily’s letter to Sebastian is based on an actual love letter found in the _Formulae Salicae Merkelianae_ , dating 750- after 817. 


	25. Of Poison and Proposals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Wishing you all a joyous end of the semester and holiday season. Sending you much gratitude, love, and virtual hugs, my dears: I am so grateful for each and every one of you. And a huge thank you to the epic AnnaLucia for beta-ing. Hope you all enjoy! <3

Fenris noticed something was amiss with Sebastian as soon as his friend joined them in the Chantry’s common room. Sebastian was pale, shivery, his gaze distant and expression pained. He absently handed out parcels, paying no heed to the children clamoring around him. 

“Are you alright?” Fenris asked while filling little hands with cookies, “you’re awfully quiet.” 

“I dinnae feel well,” Sebastian replied, wincing. “Belly ache.” 

“Hm. How many cookies have you eaten? Perhaps they disagreed with you. They did with me, last night.” He glanced at his friend; Sebastian looked miles away, as though he’d never heard him. 

“Sebastian. _Sebastian!_ ” Sebastian startled, nearly dropping his cookie basket. Fenris helped him to a seat while Rana and Varania played with the children. He was warm to the touch, a fine sheen of sweat glistened from his cheek. Even though it was a short distance to the bench in the corner, Sebastian was still out of breath. It worried Fenris. 

“Why don’t we have you rest upstairs? I’ll fetch you when we’re ready to leave,” he said, looping his arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. He helped him upstairs to his old quarters and sat him on the bed. The room was so bare now, practically empty save for the valise and sacks in the corner. He unlaced Sebastian’s boots and helped him lie down, smoothing a blanket around his shoulders. 

“Here’s the chamber pot, should you feel sick,” he said, placing it on the nightstand.

“Thank ye,” Sebastian replied. He _really_ didn’t look well; Fenris bit his lip, concerned.

“I’ll ask one of the Sisters from the infirmary to look in on you,” he promised, pushing sweaty hair from Sebastian’s face. “Did you eat something that disagreed with you?”

“I broke me fast with ye this morning, Fen, ye saw what I ate. Naught but porridge and an egg. I dinnae understand.” Fenris patted his arm and departed for downstairs.

“Alright, you rest awhile, then, Sebastian.”  
  
Varania met him in the stairwell. “Where were you?” she asked in a low, hurried voice. “You and Sebastian disappeared; we became worried.”

“He doesn’t feel well, I took him upstairs to rest.” He flagged down a passing Sister. “Sister, Brother Vael requires medical assistance. Please send someone from the infirmary to his quarters. They will know what to do,” he said, following Varania back to the main hall, where Rana was leading the children in Satinalia carols. He may have rejoined the others, but Fenris couldn’t focus. His mind kept going to Sebastian in discomfort upstairs. 

The Sisters regaled the children with parables and tales from the Chant of Light. Much to Fenris’s surprise, they asked him for a story.

“I remember one story, about a tiger and a mouse,” he said. He told them of the lowly mouse who had accidently woken up a tiger. Instead of eating the mouse like any tiger would, this one was merciful and let the mouse free…but not before the mouse gave him a promise.

“‘I will help you in your time of need,’ the mouse said. ‘I swear it.’ The tiger laughed, wondering what a tiny creature like the mouse could do, but let him go all the same. He quite forgot about the mouse until one day, a hunter captured the tiger in his net. The tiger thrashed and growled, but he could not free himself. He roared in anger.” The children listened in awe, Rana and Varania smiling in approval. Fenris was halfway through when a Sister slipped through the door and headed straight to the Grand Cleric. The two women rushed to the stairwell, disappearing from view. He was so engrossed in watching, Fenris nearly lost his place in the tale. 

“What happened next, _Maamaji_?” Leto asked with a mouthful of cookie. His new friends nodded, clamoring for details. 

“The mouse recognized his roar, and found the tiger in the net. He gnawed through the rope, and set the tiger free. ‘You see? I returned the kindness you gave me,’ the mouse said. And thus did the tiger learn that a kindness is never wasted.” The children delighted in the stories and treats so much that they rushed Rana, Varania, and Fenris with numerous ‘thank yous’ and hugs.

He gained Varania’s attention and nodded towards the door; thankfully, she understood, quietly slipping away upstairs. The Sisters came to escort the children to lunch. Fenris and Rana ran upstairs to Sebastian’s quarters. 

“Messere,” a Sister cried from the landing, “he’s most unwell.” 

_“What?_ ” Fenris asked in disbelief. He hurried down the hall to the room. 

“I went to check on him as you asked, messere; by the time the Grand Cleric and I arrived with Sister Anna, he was retching blood. Then he fell unconscious.” 

Fenris went to him. “Seb, brother,” he said, shaking his shoulder. “ _Sebastian!_ ” 

“It’s poison, messere,” Sister Anna explained. “I administered salt water to ensure he expelled most of the poison, but his mouth and throat are burned and blistered. I must drain the bad blood away and restore his humors.” He fell back in the chair, pressing his hand to his sternum to will himself calm. 

“Poison? But we ate all the same food. H-How?”

A scream down the hall interrupted him. A novice ran into the room. “Sister! Sister, come quickly, it’s Sister Agatha,” she cried. “I-I went to check on her, and she was in her chair by the fire. Her _mouth_ , sister: blood everywhere, I-I ran to fetch you.” 

Bloody mouth. Fenris looked to Sebastian, then to Varania. She must have had the same thought. “Fetch Merrill,” Varania said to Rana in Tevene. “Quickly. I fear this is beyond that Sister’s healing.” 

Rana quietly exited, to not draw attention. Thank the Maker Merrill was shopping in Hightown for herbs. Sister Anna gave her assistant instructions and bustled down the hall. It wasn’t long until the Grand Cleric came in. 

“Fetch the Guard Captain,” she said, voice grave, “there’s been a murder.”

Fenris’s jaw dropped. He rushed out of the room, excusing himself before his magic manifested. He found the nearest empty room and sat on the bed, head in his hands.

“ _Bhai_ ,” Varania said, pursuing him. “Calm yourself.”

“ _There’s been a murder_ ,” he replied, voice going sharp. Ice coated his palms. “I’ve pledged to keep Sebastian safe at all costs. How could this happen on my watch?”

“Sebastian already felt unwell when he joined us; whatever happened occurred while he was alone. And it involved both him and Sister Agatha; you’re not to blame.” 

“But it makes no sense. Who would ever want to harm a Chantry Sister?” he asked. 

“Exactly. No one would dare do so or have a reason, but a future Prince...” He stared at her. 

“Our rivals,” he replied slowly, realization hitting him. “... _Venhedis_ , that poison was for _him_.” 

“Seems so.” The metallic clank of plate armor climbing stairs announced Aveline’s arrival. From the familiar cadence of voices, it sounded as though Rana and Merrill accompanied her. Fenris let out a sigh of relief. 

“Come,” Varania said, “let’s tell Lady Hendyr our thoughts; we need to quickly get to the bottom of this.”

Aveline greeted them in Sebastian’s quarters, her men taking the Sisters aside for questioning while Rana assisted Merrill. Aveline listened intently to Fenris and his sister, nodding solemnly.

“I agree with you. Search Sebastian’s things for any clues; I’ll search Sister Agatha’s quarters,” Aveline said. The three separated to search. Sebastian’s belongings were packed in valises and chests. Fenris sat on his haunches, methodically going through each one.

“Rana, fetch me the charcoal dust, I must soak up the poison,” Merrill said, “we’ll need red clover and burdock.” Fenris tried his best not to listen, to keep his mind on finding the truth behind this tragedy. Sebastian was in good hands with Merrill; worrying wouldn’t help his friend respond to treatment faster.

“…Sister Anna acted quickly,” Merrill said quietly, as though reading his thoughts, “if not for her, he’d probably not survive.”

“But he _will_ survive, yes?” he asked. “Merrill. He will?”

“I’ll do my best, but I need to know the poison to administer the antidote—”

“I think I found something!” Varania cried, waving a letter. Fenris rushed to her, reading over her shoulder. 

_“‘Me Own,_

_May this letter find ye well; with it I send me warmest greetings and affections. Enclosed, find yer Satinalia present: the finest Antivan brandy money can buy. Make a toast in me honor on Satinalia, will ye? I commend ye to the Maker daily at chapel, love. Ye’re ever in me thoughts._

_‘Much regards, Cecily,’”_ Fenris finished.

“Why would she send two separate gifts?” Rana asked as she got to her feet in front of the valise, holding a parchment and a prayer book. “Why not send them together?”

“And why not mention the book in her letter?” He narrowed his eyes. “Aveline. Now. Come.” They went down the hall to Sister Agatha’s quarters, where Aveline was examining the corpse. 

“Poison, that’s certain,” she said. “Blistered mouth and throat, just like Sebastian; they ingested the same poison, whatever it was. What’s this?” Fenris explained their findings. Aveline’s gaze fell to the mostly full bottle of brandy on the table. 

“Give some to Merrill to test,” she said, “I have to finish up here. Let me know the results.” Fenris nodded, pouring a small glass. 

“We think we found the poison,” he said, handing her the glass of brandy. “Can you test—” 

The physicians in Minrathous were well-versed in poisons; they had to be, with the nobles in the Imperial court vying for power and Imperial favor. To see their methods here in Kirkwall was surprising. Merrill went to her bloodletting kit and pulled out a silver needle, dipping it in the brandy. 

“Should the needle blacken, we’re dealing with arsenic—Ah, here we are,” her needle went black. Merrill smiled. “Rana, more chela, and, Fenris, help me sit him up.” 

He blindly followed orders, mind whirling. He couldn’t believe Cecily had poisoned Sebastian with arsenic. But why? Why ruin the alliance she’d worked so hard to obtain? It didn’t make sense. He did all Merrill asked before returning to Aveline. His disquiet only grew when his friend revealed yet another disturbing detail. 

“The porter said those parcels arrived together on the same caravan,” Aveline said. “I didn’t think anything of it, until he mentioned it carried goods from both Ostwick and Starkhaven. Are there any who oppose Sebastian’s claim to the throne?” Fenris scoffed a laugh. 

“Half of Starkhaven. They either support the current Prince or have thrown their lot in with Lord Drummond. And now this letter...” 

“The evidence points to the Seymours.” 

“Yet out of all of us, they stood to benefit most from Sebastian ascending the throne. Why renege on the alliance?” 

“Perhaps they seek to ally with the current prince, instead?” 

Fenris drummed his fingers on the table; it was a logical outcome. Goran was a widower in dire need of an heir; why _wouldn’t_ the Seymours want him over Sebastian? Yet Cecily’s letters—all the correspondence between her and Sebastian over the past months—proved her devotion and sincerity. She had genuinely sounded fond of him. If she’d calculated this all, and it was nothing but a scheme... Sebastian would truly be heartbroken once he found out. Unless... 

“Dividing the herd to make easy prey,” he murmured. “Yes. _Yes,_ that makes sense!” 

“What does?” 

“The Starkhaveners. Drive a wedge between us and Ostwick, deal an irrecoverable blow. It’s a plot!” He tapped the letter with a grin. “Aveline, they _want_ us to suspect her.” 

“But the evidence—” 

He refused to believe it. “Send for Varric, he’s a master at detecting forgeries; he can tell us if this is fake or genuine, but I have a feeling—”

“I can’t run an investigation on a ‘feeling,’ Fenris.”

“Have I ever let you down before?” Aveline shook her head, taking her leave. Now alone, Fenris considered their next move. 

“I hope you’re satisfied,” the Grand Cleric said behind him. Fenris startled, jumping to his feet.

“Your Grace,” he said with a bow.

“You’ve put the Chantry in danger with your scheming, elf,” she said, voice sharp. “A Sister is dead, and Sebastian lies dying thanks to you: _you_ pushed Sebastian towards the throne, for your own selfish gains and ambition. He was happy as a Brother; he would’ve stayed with us here—”

“He’s been talking about reclaiming his throne ever since I’ve known him, Your Grace; he is a prince, after all. This was _his_ decision, one he arrived at after many years of consideration. I did nothing except support him.” It was practically unheard of to answer back or interrupt the Grand Cleric; he would’ve laughed at her outraged expression, if he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of her glare.

“He’s no longer welcome here. As soon as he’s well enough, take him home; I wash my hands of him and his politics.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Please leave now.” He brushed past her down the hall to Sebastian’s quarters, where his friend was propped up in bed, awake.

“Thank the Maker,” Fenris said, rushing to the bed and embracing his friend. “You frightened us all!” 

“Ye cannae be rid of me that easily,” Sebastian whispered, voice weak and reedy. “Not with a chocolate cake on Satinalia.” Fenris laughed, brusquely brushing the tears from his eyes. 

“Merrill, Rana, thank you. Seems you preserved him _and_ his sense of humor.” 

“Fen, what was it? What happened?” Sebastian asked. Fenris looked to the others for guidance; Merrill gave a small nod, quietly mixing one of those calming tonics she made for Fenris whenever he panicked. Rana also nodded in encouragement.

Fenris began, “Sebastian, it…” The words were harder to share than he expected. Fenris took a deep breath and explained as gently as he could; Sebastian’s eyes widened.

“No,” he said, “n-no, Fen. No, it cannae be.”

“Varric and Aveline are looking into it, but—” Sebastian’s breath shallowed.

“I’m cursed,” he gasped, “Fenris, I-I’m being punished for me sins. I’m eating the evil fruit of me own growing—” 

“No, Sebastian. You’ve repented for your youth in this Chantry for over a decade. This is the work of someone wicked,” Fenris replied, keeping his voice steady, just as Rana did all the countless times she’d talked him through his panic spells. “You’re a good man, you’re not being punished.”

“But Cecily! How could she do this to me? Fen, _Fen,_ I love her—”

“We don’t know for certain if she is to blame, yet.” He could’ve been speaking Seheran for all the good it did. Sebastian wept, lamenting his lady’s betrayal and Sister Agatha’s passing. Fenris could only offer kind words and reminders to breathe while Rana held Sebastian’s hand; their hearts ached for their dear friend. 

“Sebastian, drink this,” Merrill said, offering her tonic, “it’ll help.”

“It will,” Fenris said, patting him on the back. “Drink, and rest. We’ll go home when you feel better tomorrow.”

“I cannae stay here,” Sebastian said. “I refuse.” He nudged Fenris to his feet, throwing back the blanket. “Help me stand.” He wasn’t going to give up, Fenris knew; when Sebastian set his mind to something, nothing would stop him. Fenris looped his arm around Sebastian’s shoulders and helped him to the door. 

“Ran, can you take Varania and Leto shopping? I don’t want Leto to see him like this,” he said to her in Tevene. She nodded, calling for porters to carry Sebastian’s luggage away. He gave his friend an affable smile and helped him down the stairs out the door. Sebastian paused at the threshold. 

“…I’ll never come back here, will I?” he asked. “The Grand Cleric banished me.”

“She banished all of us, not just you,” Fenris replied, “but it’s alright. We’re a family, now.” 

By the time he unpacked and helped Merrill put Sebastian to bed, Fenris was exhausted. He fell into the chair at the library desk with a groan. “I pray Varric has good news,” he said to the empty room. “I don’t think Sebastian can handle it, if Cecily’s untrue.”

* * *

The next day, Varania browsed the Hightown market stalls with Rana, searching for the perfect Satinalia gifts. Late Harvestmere in Kirkwall was, she decided, quite lovely: Hightown was decorated for the holiday. Cheerful cloth garlands of yellows and reds hung from awnings and shop windows, draped in the bare trees. The streets, even this early in the morning, were bustling with shoppers in their bright cloaks and woolens. Varania smiled; she was pleased with her choices, all meaningful and practical gifts for their friends and household. 

“What will you get my brother?” she asked Rana as they visited the book stand. “A book?”

“Actually, I wanted to visit the jeweler,” Rana replied, a slight blush creeping in. “I…wanted to get him something special.”

“Oh? Something engraved?” 

“A ring.” Varania nearly dropped the adventure novel she was holding.

“A-A ring?” she exclaimed. “You mean a _ring_?” 

“Is it too forward?”

Varania laughed. “For you? No. You’re a bold woman, I would expect this from you.” She smiled. “It’s clear you’re good for my brother; you saved his life and truly love him, for that I’ll be forever grateful. I approve the match wholeheartedly, and give my blessings.” Rana grinned, taking her by the hand and running to the jeweler. 

“Good morning, Judoc,” Rana said to the plump dwarf behind the counter as though he was an old friend. “I’ve come for a very special commission.”

“Welcome, milady! More reading spectacles for Ser El-Khoury?” She grinned and pushed a length of string across the counter.

“A wedding ring, this time. I want it to be most special for him.” The man smiled.

“You’ll want the newest arrival, milady: the Gimmel!” He brought out a tray of thick-banded rings. Two sapphires gleamed from a nest of golden filigree. “Two halves of one whole: undo the clasps and…” the ring separated into two twins. “Each of the couple gets a ring.” 

Varania couldn’t help the smile; her brother would certainly appreciate the sentiment behind the design. Rana, however…

“It’s sweet, but he’s not a sapphire,” she said, waving the ring away. “Nor is he a ruby or emerald.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “Diamonds.” The jeweler beamed and brought out another tray.

“They’re an…unusual choice, milady,” he said with caution, “many folk use them for warding off illnesses—”

“Judoc, how in the world did you cut these?” she asked, holding it up to the light. “No. This won’t do, not at all.” The dwarf’s eyes widened. 

“B-But, milady!” Rana took up a stick of charcoal and an invoice. 

“See here, _this_ is how you cut a diamond: they don’t have this anywhere outside my homeland, Judoc, I guarantee it. My father became a very rich man selling diamonds like this.” She drew a diagram of triangles inside a circle; Varania and the jeweler were astounded. 

“This is called the brilliant cut,” Rana said. “Fifty-seven facets; the cuts are made to make the stone shine.”

“H-How do you know this?” he asked. 

“My father was a jeweler like you. I spent many hours learning from him.” There was a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, which she quickly concealed with a smile. “Now. You can use one of these existing bands for it, for time’s sake. Resize the band, cut the stones. How quickly can your team manage? I’ll pay extra if you can finish by Satinalia.” He blinked at her.

“A week, milady? I…I’ve never finished a piece that quickly, and with a new sort of cut stone—”

“Judoc.” Rana wore the same persuading smile Varania had seen her use on her brother. ‘The Infallible,’ Varania had deemed it, for how successful it was. She had to turn away to not laugh.

“Judoc Gimmel, you’re a genius with gemstones: do you think I’d give my family secret to just anyone? If there’s anyone in Kirkwall, no, anyone in Thedas,” Rana leaned in confidentially, “that can do this, it’s _you_.”

“…What’s the price of this secret?” 

“Ten percent on each piece sold with a brilliant cut. And it’s not just for diamonds, either: you can use that cut for anything. Imagine a sapphire like that.” He already was. Just by that gleam in the dwarf’s eye, Varania could tell he was trying to withhold his excitement.

“…Back office,” he said. “We’ll draw up a contract.” Rana smiled, giving a triumphant glance to Varania before following the jeweler to the back.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Varania said, falling against the wooden counter, “she’s unstoppable, that one.” Rana practically skipped out of the room and out the door, humming a song.

“I have it all planned,” Rana said. “Satinalia morning, all of us gathered together, I kneel before him to show my devotion—” she took Varania’s hand in hers and knelt before her. “And I say ‘Ya Fenris Leto El-Khoury, light of my life, my love and my strength, will you do me the honor of marrying me?’” It was possibly the grandest, most ridiculous thing Varania had ever seen—especially out in the street for all of Hightown to see. Her face went impossibly hot.

“It’s exciting, it’s so romantic… but in Tevinter, the _man_ asks that question,” she said, smiling. “But as it’s a surprise, I’m sure we can make an exception.” She _had_ to tell Sebastian the moment they arrived home; this was too shocking of a revelation to keep a secret. Varania resolved to do so that very afternoon. She opened the door to find her brother approaching.

“Brother, are you well? You’re rather...preoccupied,” she said.

“I require your assistance in choosing and presenting Rana’s Satinalia present,” he said. “I need a married woman’s advice.” ‘Choosing and presenting’ could only mean one thing... Varania stifled her elation, feigning surprise. 

“You wish to _marry_ her?” she gasped. “When you said you’d be an El-Khoury soon enough, I wasn’t expecting by next week!” 

“It’s been five months, is it too soon? I just...I can’t imagine my life with anyone else.” She smiled sadly; she’d felt the same when she’d married. 

She nudged him. “Come, I think Rana’s wrapping gifts with Leto.” Varania hadn’t seen her brother so excited since they were children. He could barely contain himself on the way to the jeweler. 

“What should I get her?” he asked, walking backwards to face her, grinning and waving his hands about while talking, just as he used to when he was a boy. “Donnic said sapphires are traditional, but I want something unique.” 

“If she casts a fire spell, it could damage the stone,” she replied in Tevene, for the sake of eavesdroppers. “I would say a diamond. Gold setting.” His eyes widened. 

“Oh. _Oh_ , yes, that’s it. Have I mentioned how grateful I am you’re here?” They were both laughing as they entered the jeweler’s... the very same one Rana had taken her to not two hours before. 

“Milady, you’ve returned? With Ser El-Khoury, no less,” the jeweler said. “Welcome, both of you.” Fenris looked surprised. 

“You’ve been to Gimmel’s? When?” How would Varania say it without ruining the surprise? She stared at her brother, mind blank. 

“Milady accompanied Lady El-Khoury here this morning, messere,” the dwarf spoke up. Fenris groaned. 

“ _Venhedis_. Don’t tell me Rana’s commissioned yet _another_ piece, Judoc...” The dwarf shrugged. 

“‘Twas just a small trinket, milord.” 

Fenris sighed a long-suffering sigh. “No matter. I want the most beautiful ring, unlike what anyone has seen before, this size.” He had a hair ribbon that he’d knotted to a particular length. Ser Gimmel nodded. 

“A surprise ring...is it for a special occasion, messere?” Varania looked to the dwarf with admiration; he was the very soul of discretion, not letting on to anything. 

“Yes, a...” Fenris looked to his sister, unsure how to say ‘betrothal ring’ without first implying they were never married in the first place. 

“I could not attend my brother’s wedding, Ser Gimmel,” Varania said with a smile. “Now that our family is together, they’re renewing their marriage vows with everyone present.” Fenris gave her a look of gratitude. 

“Yes, exactly so,” he said. “E-Exactly so.” The dwarf beamed. 

“I call this the El-Kho—I mean the star cut, after your lady,” he said holding up a brilliant, shining stone. “It’s like a star, isn’t it?” It was astounding, breathtaking, unlike anything Varania had ever seen; even her brother was speechless. 

“F-Flank the central stone with smaller stones,” he said after a moment, “I trust you with the band. I need it on—” 

“Satinalia,” the dwarf finished. “It will be a masterpiece, messere. An heirloom.” 

“Well, diamonds last forever, they say.” The dwarf stared at him. 

“‘Diamonds last forever—’ oh, messere! Ser El-Khoury, it’s perfect! You’re a genius! I’ll give you a discount for that.” 

“Excellent,” Fenris said, “I could use a discount.” He shot Varania a look of ‘what just happened’ before following the dwarf to the back of the store. As soon as the office door shut, she burst into laughter; she could not _wait_ for Satinalia, this year.

* * *

‘ _To the right Honorable and Valorous Ser El-Khoury of Beirut,_

 _May this letter find you in good health and spirits. Ever since your daughter’s arrival in Kirkwall—_ ’ Fenris scraped off the ink with his writing knife and started again. 

‘ _Most honored and cherished Father—_ ’ No. Several other false starts, and he’d scraped a hole in the vellum. He growled in frustration and drummed his fingers on the desk. His intentions of asking for her father’s blessings would have to wait.

“I’m getting nowhere,” he muttered. His mind went to presenting Rana’s gift. As much as he wanted to follow his sister’s advice, kneeling before Varric Tethras and Donnic to propose felt so...daunting. A guaranteed chapter in _The Songstress and the Swordsman_ ; he could just imagine Varric taking notes. Fenris went upstairs to Sebastian’s room, hopeful that his friend continued to improve, as Merrill said he would… and also hoping he had a better idea that wasn’t so embarrassingly public. 

“Why bother asking me?” Sebastian groaned. “It’s clear ye prefer advice from yer sister and Donnic.” 

“I asked them because they’re married, they know all about this,” Fenris replied, already regretting seeking Sebastian for guidance. “I wanted someone with experience.” Sebastian scoffed as he sipped his soup.

“‘Experience.’ They’re _commoners_ , Fen; Rana’s no commoner, she’s a high-born lady. _I_ ken about that sort of thing. And _diamonds_? What in the Void were ye thinking? She’s no invalid!” 

“She needs a stone that won’t crack from magic.” 

“Sapphires survive house fires; they can survive the likes of Rana El-Khoury. Maker, I _kenned_ ye needed me.” 

“What was I to do, Sebastian? Drag you to the jeweler, half dead?” Fenris held back a smile at Sebastian’s tinge of jealousy. 

_“Aye!”_

“You’d just been p—” he stopped himself, “you’d just fallen ill.” Sebastian heaved a sigh. 

“What’s done is done, I suppose; no use mewling over it. Did ye write her father for her hand in marriage? Do _one_ thing properly, at least.” 

“How can we send a letter if Beirut isn’t found on the maps?” Fenris asked. 

“Fair, fair.” He sighed. “I advise ye to take her outside in the garden. Speak to her like ye do for anything else: calmly and sincerely. And with an idea of what ye’d like to say; ye tend to ramble when nervous, ye ken.” With that Sebastian rolled over to sleep. Fenris thanked him, left with more questions than answers. The answers still eluded him the rest of that evening. 

“Are you alright?” Rana asked as he held her close in bed. “You’ve been very quiet.” 

“I was wondering what star you fell from, when I found you in the alley,” he said. “Wondering which god I should thank for sending you to me.” She scoffed a laugh. 

“You’re obviously thinking about my Satinalia present, if you’re lying so prettily.” 

“I resent that accusation,” he replied in mock protest. “I _was_ wondering that...and how to give you your present.” He turned her towards him and kissed her. “Both things.” She wrapped her arms around him as he slid on top of her.

“Multitasking again? Show-off.” 

Since sharing a bed, they’d been slowly easing into intimacy. Rana had said that they would only go as far as he was comfortable; some nights, it was a kiss and sharing a pillow to sleep. Others... making love to her wasn’t a mere act, he found; it transcended carnality or lust. It was two souls coming together as one, in his eyes. He never fathomed he could love someone as much as he did her, or that he could possibly even feel such depth of emotion. 

Perhaps one day, all of the memories of Danarius would dissipate and he could enjoy their time together fully. Perhaps it would even be their wedding night; _that_ thought made him nearly giddy with hope and anticipation. 

The rest of the week went quickly. Their spirits continued to rise as Sebastian’s health improved. Every day, they hosted either a dinner party, tea, or luncheon. It felt a bit like living in a museum, keeping the house so pristine for their noble guests, but Varania was a strict housekeeper. She organized the servants they’d ‘rented’ for the fortnight, working with Rana to run the house smoothly. No error would be tolerated; they worked doubly hard to be impeccable, to overcome the label of ‘foreigners.’ All their hard work paid off; their events were well-received, and became the talk of Hightown.

As the Chantry no longer required Rana for the services, their Satinalia Eve would be far more relaxed than originally planned: dinner and games with friends. Fenris was relieved when the last of that morning’s tea party guests finally departed; he threw himself on the bed and sighed, grateful for a moment to himself. 

The ‘moment’ became most of the afternoon, when Fenris was suddenly awakened from his nap as the dogs screech-barked downstairs, announcing their friends’ arrival. He slid his spectacles on, shuffling out the door. Varania met him in the hall. 

“Are you posing your question tonight, or?” His sister nudged him with a sly grin. She had not stopped talking about the ring all week; it was her default topic now, whenever they were alone. But he was no better: he’d rehearsed his speech with her at least ten times, as well as his presentation. He felt like an actor in a play, rehearsing so much. 

All through the dinner party, through the games and Wicked Grace tournament—they played for cookies, for Leto’s sake—Sebastian gave him ‘the look.’ The expectant, questioning look he would use when they’d adventured with Hawke. The ‘aren’t you going to do something’ look, because no one wanted to enter the cave of giant spiders and Fenris had a longsword. It was as irksome now as it was then. 

The household retired early, spent from a busy and enjoyable day. Fenris was far too excited and nervous to sleep. He must have finally dropped off sometime in the night, because the next thing he knew, Tavvie jumped on the bed, demanding breakfast before dawn. 

“Go bother your uncle,” he muttered, still half-asleep. “I’m tired.” Tavvie whined, nudging his arm with his wet, cold nose. Leaving Rana and the warm bed was unfathomable. 

“Go to Sebastian,” he whispered, careful not to wake Rana. “Go on.” Fenris sighed in contentment. He was nearly asleep when he heard a playful growl from the side of the bed. 

“You brat, _what do you_ —” his words died on his lips, for Tavvie held a very familiar, calico-wrapped blob in his jaws. 

The ring box. 

Fenris shot up in bed, fully awake. He shoved his spectacles on his nose, diving for the puppy. “Give it back,” he whispered, “MacTavish El-Khoury, _stay, that’s not yours_.” Tavvie considered this an invitation to play, running about the room, play-growling. Fenris scrambled after him, chasing him out into the hall. 

“You little bastard,” he said as the dog dodged away for the umpteenth time. He’d _told_ Rana teaching the dog to ‘trade’ for treats was a horrible idea; of all the times to be treatless... 

“Trade,” he commanded, pretending to hold a treat. “Tavvie, trade.” The dog dropped the box, clearly interested, but only for a second. He snatched the box in his jaws, shaking it as though to kill it. 

Fenris lunged, knocking into the end table and sending it clattering to the floor, its painted vase shattering. The whole house crowded into the hallway. Aveline and Donnic emerged from their bedroom, daggers drawn, while Varric came bearing his crossbow. Merrill prepared to cast a spell, while Sebastian and Leto burst in, hair on end and still half asleep. Varania and Rana appeared, holding their sternums. 

“What is going on here?” Varania demanded, voice sharp, “Leto, stay where you are. Fenris, pick up the dog, I’ll fetch a broom.” 

“Are you alright?” the others asked while Varania swept. “What happened?” 

“Tavvie,” he replied. “He wanted breakfast. Apologies for waking you.” 

“Why would you chase him, though?” Rana asked. “Why not just trade— _yi!_ ” She lunged to pick up the parcel. “You bad boy! Look, your father’s present is soggy and full of little teeth marks.” 

“ _My_ present? That’s _your_ present.” Her eyes went wide. 

“You bought each other duplicates?” Varric asked. “I’ve heard of ‘one in mind and heart,’ but you two are legendary.” 

“Come, let’s go downstairs,” Rana said, clearly shaken. “W-We’ll feed the dogs and open presents.” 

“Wait... That’s _my_ present? It looks exactly like the one—” Varania interrupted, flashing a wicked grin. 

“Maybe, maybe not. Happy Satinalia!” He followed her downstairs to the sitting room, where they’d kept the presents. Leto assisted Merrill in sorting gifts. It seemed he and Rana _had_ thought similarly, gifting each other small boxes. Fenris couldn’t stop staring at his, jaw agape. Had Varric been correct; was this what he thought it was? She and Varania _had_ gone to Gimmel’s, after all. It was too small for a bracelet—

“ _Bhai_ ,” Varania called. “Your turn, brother. My gift to you.” He startled as one from a dream and untied the ribbon to reveal a teak coffer. He opened it and gasped. 

“It’s Mataji’s,” she said. “I wanted you to have it, to remember her by.” He blinked hard, fingers running over the carved malachite pendant. It was exactly as he recalled it, down to the soft leather cord. To hold it in his hand now, after all this time, his eyes filled.

“I’ll never take it off,” he swore, tying it around his neck. “This means so much to me.” 

“Wait until Rana’s gift,” she replied, “I’d get out your handkerchief, if I were you.” 

Waiting for Rana’s present was torturous. While he was grateful for the gifts he received, he was terribly impatient to see what was in that box. 

“On the count of three, we should open,” Rana said. “One, two—”

“Wait, wait!” Fenris interrupted. He swallowed hard, walked over to Rana and knelt before her. His rehearsed speech flew out of his head at the thought of all eyes being on him. Sebastian’s words came back to him. ‘Calm and sincere.’ With heart pounding and hands trembling, Fenris took a deep breath and began. “Rana, when I look into my heart, I see only you. I want to be with you always. W-Will you marry me?”

“A thousand times yes, Fenris, I will!” He was expecting the squeal of joy, the gasp when he opened the box, but not the happy tears. Her eyes widened at the sight of the sparkling, substantial, exquisite diamond. She fell to her knees before him with his small gift box.

“Ya Fenris El-Khoury, this is my gift to you.” 

“What’s this?” he asked. The gold band bore a line of four small but brilliant diamonds. He was taken aback, tears filling his eyes. It didn’t matter who or how many were in the room, all he saw was his beautiful Rana smiling back at him.  
They exchanged the rings and embraced amidst applause, wiping tears of joy away. Everyone took a turn admiring the sparkle and light of the most beautiful rings they ever saw. But that didn’t matter. Fenris was already floating as he helped himself to a slice of the much-anticipated chocolate log cake. Their betrothal went precisely as it was meant to, with diamond rings, thieving dogs, impromptu proposals, and cake for breakfast. Religious experience-inducing cake, no less…

There had to be a Maker, if He made chocolate and Rana El-Khoury. And Fenris thanked Him a thousand times in his heart for the honor and privilege of sharing such a momentous first Satinalia with his friends and family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH!!! They’re engaged! Best Satinalia gift ever, this chapter was so much fun to write. <3 
> 
> Fact I: In Medieval and Renaissance Europe, gemstones held special meanings; the most popular of them being sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Sapphires, for example, were considered the ‘king of all gemstones,’ and represented joy. Rubies were stones of love, while emeralds represented chastity. It was said that should a spouse put an emerald under an unfaithful partner’s pillow, the unfaithful party would leap out of bed, unable to bear being close to the emerald.  
> Sapphires, emeralds, and rubies were all popular choices for betrothal rings. Diamond rings were uncommon and highly expensive, only found among the royals. They didn’t become the standard for engagement rings until 1948, when De Beers ran a diamond ring campaign with the slogan ‘A diamond is forever.’ It became a huge hit, obviously.
> 
> Fact II: Gimmel rings are actual rings, and were highly popular in the 15 and 16th centuries for betrothals, especially in Germany. Tradition states for each of the couple to wear a ring half: on the wedding day, the rings were put together and given to the bride, to signify two people joined in matrimony. 
> 
> Fact III: I based Fenris’s letter salutations from actual letters from the late 1500s, to keep it authentic.
> 
> Fact IV: Tavvie’s playtime antics and Rana’s training are taken from real life: our little rescue dog, Oscar. He has the middle name of ‘That’s Not Yours’ for all the items he’s ‘stolen.’ Be it a sock or a leaf, he’ll trade for a treat. Now when he wants a treat, he makes you get up by running around with his confiscated goods.


	26. Severed Knots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021, my lovelies! Sending you many wishes of joy, peace, and a successful new year. <3 
> 
> I'm so excited: first chapter of 2021! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, my readers: it's been such fun to share it with you. And a huge thank you, as always, to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. <3

Merrill leaned against the frame of her bed, holding her throbbing hand against her chest. Usually, when casting blood magic, the wound on her palm would ache from the magical force leaving her body. Now, since working with Arzu to restore the eluvian mirror, it intensified, her magic burning under her skin in rhythm to her heartbeat. The pain turned her stomach, leaving her nauseous and exhausted.

“You’re doing well, my pet,” Arzu said. “Soon we’ll see the fruits of our labor.” Merrill shivered; she thought about Rana, and how she must have suffered dealing with Arzu. Despite her plan and capabilities, Merrill came to realize the true intensity of Arzu’s power. Weakened and frustrated, anger spiked through her body.

“‘Soon,’” Merrill said bitterly. “‘Soon,’ when is this ‘soon?’ _You’ve been saying that for months._ ”

Arzu raised her eyebrow. “You dare question me? I can easily leave you to your own devices, let you fumble along and let the darkness take you. You _asked_ to find your beloved Tamlen, but perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps you truly don’t love him as you claim…” 

Merrill closed her eyes, shielding herself against the demon's hurtful words. She _ached_ to find Tamlen, and repair the mirror for her clan—it was her driving desire—but at what cost? Restoring the mirror was draining her life force. Arzu was unbearable, hounding Merrill incessantly to work on the eluvian. She hunted her as Merrill walked the Fade in her dreams, twisting memories into nightmares until she woke in cold sweats. 

Merrill’s head pounded. She was far too out of her depth. Between the eluvian and the ever-growing number of patients coming to the clinic, she felt overwhelmed and at her breaking point. She knew Arzu would then seize the opportunity to claim her. Merrill truly regretted taking the Red Book from Fenris, and to have the audacity to think she could control such a powerful being like Arzu…

Faron barked at the knock on the door. Merrill wiped her face and shoved the Red Book in its salt sack. After cleaning the wound, a quick healing spell closed her sliced palm. She was most surprised to find Rana behind the door with an armful of parcels.

“There you are,” she said, “I come bearing gifts!” Merrill greeted her friend, taking parcels from her.

“Rana! What’s all this? We just had Satinalia,” she said.

“They’re your herb orders from Hightown; I stopped by the apothecaries and picked them up, saved you the trip.” Merrill smiled.

“Thank you, much appreciated. Come, have some tea; I have a moment before returning to the clinic.” She was so proud that she could say ‘clinic,’ now, thanks to Rana and Fenris’s help. Rana set down her parcels and ruffled Faron’s fur.

“Merrill, I wanted to talk to you,” Rana said, “I…I’ve noticed that you’re looking very tired lately. Are you feeling well?” Merrill stiffened as she set the tea kettle on the hearth.

“I’m fine,” she replied all too cheerily. “The clinic’s busy, thanks to the change in weather.”

“You know you can tell me anything, yes? Anything.” Merrill bit her lip. She wanted to tell Rana of Arzu and the eluvian, knowing Rana could be trusted with such secrets. 

An unseen pair of eyes burned into Merrill’s skull at that thought, malevolence coating her like oil. Merrill knew that feeling. It was Arzu glaring at her to keep quiet; Creators knew what punishments would be cast, if Merrill disobeyed. Her common sense beat on her skull to speak, but fear screamed at her not to. Merrill bowed her head, heart pounding in her ears.

“I’ve been so busy. But I’m fine,” she lied, “just tired.”

Whether she was convincing, Merrill couldn’t tell. Rana spoke no more about it, switching to finding assistants to help with the clinic. Merrill forced herself to pay attention, but the feeling of being watched intensified. She noticed Rana shift uncomfortably in her seat, eyes flicking to the bedroom door. Her shoulders stiffened as she gripped her teacup and dutifully drank, perhaps a little too fast, proving her uneasiness. Rana stayed a polite fifteen minutes and then departed, gaze settling on the bedroom one last time before she took her leave. Merrill regretted keeping silent. 

Just as she thought it would, the sensation of staring eyes on her diminished immediately when Rana departed. Arzu was no doubt pleased the threat was gone.   
All day at the clinic, Merrill’s mind was with the eluvian mirror. She couldn’t wait to restore it and finally be rid of Arzu forever. She hopefully could find Tamlen, could walk where only her ancestors had trod thousands of years ago. It gave Merrill hope and the will to continue.

Immediately after her last patient departed, Merrill locked the clinic door and hurried home. Feeling she was on the cusp of something groundbreaking, she fed Faron and sat before the eluvian, drawing the Red Book out of the salt sack.

“Come,” Arzu said, “you’re ready for the final step.”

A fog settled in Merrill’s mind as her hand moved without permission. She fought against it to maintain control, but it was like keeping her head afloat in a pool of tar. The harder she fought, the weaker she felt. Panic surged inside her. Merrill found herself muttering spells she did not know, in tongues she didn’t recognize. Thinking became difficult as the fog pressed in around her, smothering her protests; soon, everything around her fell away, and Merrill knew nothing more.

When she regained consciousness, the room was dark and the fire had nearly gone out. She leaned her head against the mirror’s frame, weak and depleted. Merrill reached inside, searching for a wisp of magic to heal herself, but much to her dismay, there was nothing to draw on, she’d completely used up her magical reserve.

“Come on,” she whispered, falling forward as she crawled to her nightstand. “Get the health potion. You need a health potion and elfroot.”

“You may rest tomorrow,” Arzu said behind her. “Afterwards, you’ll take me through the eluvian.” Merrill uncorked the elfroot bottle, taking a swig; the liquid was bitter on her tongue. A soothing warmth radiated through her veins, her body sagged against the nightstand.

A whine and a cold wetness startled her awake. Faron nuzzled her hand, concern in his eyes. Merrill smiled weakly, scratching his ear. His…blue ear? She blinked and shook her head; the room was bathed in a blue-gray light, shimmering and flickering like the sun on the harbor. Merrill turned and gasped: the broken glass she’d seen for years in the eluvian’s frame was now liquid silver, shining opalescent like a dragonfly’s wing. A faint glimpse of blossoming cherry trees and gardens glinted through. It took Merrill’s breath away.

“I did it,” she gasped, eyes wide in disbelief. “Creators, I actually did it!”

“You’re welcome,” Arzu replied with a smug grin. 

“Come,” Merrill said. “I’ll take you through.” Arzu’s smile was akin to a knife blade.

“You have power and skill, Merrill, unlike that Lebanese wench. So useless—”

Merrill ignored the compliment and unceremoniously shoved the book into the salt sack. She grabbed her staff from the corner. “I’ll show _you_ ‘power,’” she muttered. She placed several vials of health potion in her belt pouch, slinging the salt sack over her shoulder. “Stay here, Faron,” she commanded, “Guard the entrance, good boy.” The mabari’s ears pricked up at his name; he sat before the mirror attentively.

Merrill took a deep breath. She stood before the eluvian, dazzled by the swirling colors.   
It looked so innocent, so harmless; she inched her hand closer to the silver barrier, magic thrummed and danced on her skin. “Creators preserve me,” she whispered. 

Her fingers slid through the barrier easily, like dipping her hand in cool water. It was soothing, almost, peaceful. Merrill closed her eyes, uttered a short prayer, and stepped through. She was willing to risk everything, if it meant freeing herself from Arzu once and for all.

The garden was actually a giant courtyard, branching into many roads like the spokes of a giant wheel. A vague sun diffused the swirling purples and greens dancing above, spangling it on the cobblestones like the stained glass in the Chantry windows. Cliffs plunged into mist below, betraying no end. Merrill had never seen such a realm before, not even in her dreams, but she knew: wherever she was, it was highly dangerous. She gripped her staff and backed away from the edge of the cliff. 

“Which way?” she asked herself. The closest road beckoned, a sturdy-looking path winding its way up a hill. Merrill clambered up the steps, careful of her footing. She passed under crumbling porticos of ruins long forgotten, passed trees of vibrant pink and blue leaves. No birds sang in the boughs; she saw no living creature in this strange place, yet she could feel hundreds of eyes upon her. Merrill kept her head down and continued on her way: the sooner she found another eluvian and the Fade, the sooner she could be rid of Arzu.

Ought she take the Red Book out and let Arzu guide her? She could easily get lost, with so many portals to more and more realms. Only the Creators knew how extensive they were, or where she’d end up.

But what was to say Arzu wouldn’t seize control and banish Merrill to a portal with no escape, never to see Kirkwall again? Knowing Arzu, that’s exactly what would happen. She fought hard to resist the urge to untie the salt sack and continued her journey.

At the top of the hill she was relieved to find another eluvian mirror, similar to her own. This one, however, revealed a frighteningly alien world beyond the barrier, of green skies and black cliffs. She could feel the pull of powerful magic emanating from behind the barrier, drawing her closer. The place looked as though it matched the descriptions of the Fade written in her books. Trembling and with heart pounding, Merrill passed through the barrier into what she hoped was the realm of dreams.

The Fade was unlike anything she’d imagined it to be. This place was cold, and smelled like charcoal and ash. Dead. Alien. Islands floated in the sky, while a silent sea mirrored a sun that wasn’t there. Strange noises echoed from the distance, noises she dreaded to know the creators of. Merrill inched towards the edge of the cliff she’d found herself on, knowing that one false move would send her plummeting into the Void. Her stomach twisted. The darkness felt alive, writhing and whispering, as if it was reaching towards her.

A shiver shot through Merrill as she backed away from the edge. If her tomes were to be believed, the only way to kill a demon thoroughly was to slay it here in the Fade, but it would be most difficult. Their magic was strongest in the Fade, sculpting their surroundings to suit their needs. The very thought of it terrified her.

“I’m a madwoman,” she whispered, kneeling as she teased the knot undone from the sack. “Facing a desire demon alone in the Fade. I’m a madwoman, for certain.” If she wanted to stand a chance, she had to act quickly. Merrill dumped the Red Book onto the cold stone below, her favorite scalpel at the ready. She quickly cast the spell to break bonds; time was of the essence. Almost immediately, a shadow manifested next to the book.

“Traitor,” it shrieked, stretching and morphing into a figure with horns. “How dare you deceive me? How dare—” Without hesitation, Arzu still mid-sentence, Merrill swung her bladed staff with all her might, severing Arzu’s head with a clean stroke. She leaned against the staff to catch her breath, the gravity of her actions sinking in.

Red caught Merrill’s attention; it was the Red Book, now rendered harmless with no demon bound to it. While stooping to examine it, she noticed a renewed strength returning to her. 

“This wicked thing will not return with me,” she decided. Manifesting a fireball, the book immediately turned to ashes. She scooped them into the sack of salt, and sealed them away with several magic wards. Nothing could get into it now, no one except her. Merrill hid the sack in a crevice in an outcropping of black rock, returning through the eluvian to the path on the hill. She dared not stop running through the abandoned porticoes and ruins, careful not to veer off the path. Her heart leapt when she reached the courtyard, and, in turn, the eluvian mirror back home. She stumbled through the mirror to her bedroom. 

Merrill fell onto her bed, eyes wide, feeling both stunned and grateful. Exhaustion set in as she hugged Faron. “I did it, I did it, Faron,” she whispered. “It’s done, thank the Creators, oh, thank the Creators!” 

* * *

As a trained assassin, Luisa was well-versed in the art of subterfuge and disguise. She’d infiltrated the Harimann household for her latest assignment from the Teyrn of Ostwick, well-aware of the dangers at stake. Royal clients expected results, no matter what difficulties arose—and Luisa did not disappoint her clientele. Her own life hung in the balance with every contract she accepted; this time, Flora Harimann was her victim. Luisa straightened her back and squared her shoulders as she stood in line with the rest of the Harimanns’ new servants. 

“Ye understand yer duties?” the steward was saying. “Ser Harimann is hosting a banquet in a week’s time, to celebrate the betrothal of our Lady Flora and Ser Vael. Ye are to prepare the house for the festivities, here’s a list for each of ye.” The servants bowed in acknowledgement while the woman separated them by tasks.

“Lass,” the woman said to Luisa, “what’s yer name? I dinnae recall hiring another serving girl.” Luisa smiled, just as her guildmaster had taught her.

“Gisele, milady,” she replied with a fake Orlesian accent. “I am trained as a lady’s maid.”

“A lady’s maid? Sweet Andraste, thank goodness yer’re here,” the steward replied. “Lady Flora’s been a proper mess since Satinalia; she could use a companion.” She bobbed a curtsey and went to search for Flora’s rooms.

Even with the steward’s directions, the Harimann mansion was confusing. Its corridors were winding, with multiple stairwells and landings. Luisa took the opportunity to mentally map out the house, as an actual map would’ve been too risky. She eventually found Flora’s rooms; the door was ajar, the sharp smell of alcohol wafting into the hall and coating Luisa’s nostrils.

“Damned shite,” Flora slurred, swigging from the carved glass decanter on her dressing table. “Didnae come for Satinalia. Loves his elf more than me.” Much to Luisa’s chagrin, her words devolved into sobs. Luisa sighed.

“Nothing worse than a remorseful drunk,” she muttered. She rapped the door, the tears stopped abruptly. Flora glared at her, sniffling as she dropped the ring she wore on a gold chain around her neck.

“What now?” she demanded, wiping her bloodshot eyes.

Luisa bowed her head and curtseyed. “The steward sent me, milady. I am Gisele, the new maid—” She crossed the room.

“I dinnae need a maid, me room’s clean,” she snapped, closing the door. Luisa slipped her foot in the way, to keep it open.

“I’m a handmaid, milady: I’m here to serve you.” Flora’s face shifted, clearly intrigued.

“ _Well,_ that’s different,” she said, stepping aside and opening the door. “Did Seb send ye? Da would never waste money on a maid; too much of a miser, he is.”

Luisa smiled. “Of course he did, Monsieur le Prince thinks of you often, milady.”

Flora scoffed, nearly falling into the dressing table. “Pretty lies. Come, dress me hair; I’ve a prince to see.” Luisa dutifully complied, stitching braids in place with a blunt needle before threading a wyvern hairpin through the updo. Flora shoved past her with a mumble of gratitude, staggering out the door and down the halls. Luisa followed five paces behind, head down as a servant would do.   
“Well, look who it is,” Flora sneered, “decided to grace us with yer presence, Yer Highness? We’re honored.” The polite smile faded from Sebastian's face. Luisa ducked behind the doorframe to observe unseen.

“Flora,” he replied, “I’m sorry I havenae come to see ye, but I’ve had good reason—”

“‘Good reason?’ They better be damned good reasons; I’ve barely seen hide or hair of ye since me brother’s weddin’, Vael. _Three months_ , it’s been!”

“I nearly died, woman, did ye not hear about it?” he exclaimed. “ _Twice_. I’ve just left me sickbed. And Fenris—”

“Made ye the laughingstock of Kirkwall with that wicked novel.” She poured herself another drink from the decanter on the table and drained it in one gulp. “Damned Vint and his whore—”

“Dinnae speak of them that way!” Flora slammed down the decanter.

“Why? Because ye fancy them, is that it? Is _that_ why ye shun me? Me Da keeps an elven lover, do ye, too?” Sebastian’s eyes widened.

“What? No! He’s like me brother.”

“ _Then why do ye shun me so? Why do ye hate me?_ ” He scoffed in disbelief.

“Are ye daft? Ye ken this is naught but a business arrangement.”

Flora fell against the end table. “B-But we were friends, as children,” she shouted. “We swore to each other we’d marry, one day. See? I-I still have the ring ye gave me.” She pulled out the chain Luisa had seen before, the one with the little carved ring on it. The hope in Flora’s eyes was pathetic.

“Ye poor thing,” Sebastian said. “I dinnae ken if I should pity ye or send for a physician.”

Flora gripped the ring, staring at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she shrieked. “A promise is a promise, Sebastian: we’re bound together; only a writ from the Divine herself could separate us now. I’m practically yer wife—”

“Look how drunk ye are again, Flora; ye were never like this. Ye dinnae even care that I nearly died. What happened to ye? Ye’ve turned into a common drunk, a disgrace to me and yer family. I’d not marry ye if ye were the last woman in Thedas.” 

“I wish the poison had worked,” she cried, voice dark with anger. “Or that me mother’s assassins had done their job and killed ye, for I’d rather die than be _saddled with ye for the rest of me life_.”

Sebastian stiffened, slamming the table with his fist. “Ye really are just like yer mother,” he said, “a heartless monster the world would be better off without.” He whirled on his heel and stormed out while she hurled expletives after him. The front door slammed shut.

Flora fell against the end table, unable to catch her breath. She poured herself another drink, hand shaking so badly, it spilled brandy over the table. She resorted to swigging it out of the decanter.

“Fecking arse,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “…He wasn’t like this when we were young; he’s not the same Seb I fell in love with.” Flora sighed, brushing her eyes with her sleeve. “I havenae changed, I’m not like her,” she said to the empty room, “he’s wrong. I’m not me mother, I’m _not_.”

She muttered into the decanter, words too low for Luisa to hear clearly. Flora glared at the front door, finishing the brandy. She was still talking to herself when Luisa rounded the corner to an alcove.

It felt almost wrong to kill such a miserable woman; she was so pitiful. “That’s not a contract,” Luisa whispered to herself in Antivan, “that’s a mercy killing—” 

The slap of slippers on the marble startled her from her thoughts. Flora stumbled past, now empty decanter dangling loosely from her fingers. Her foot skidded on the smooth marble floor. She caught herself before she fell into the wall.

“He’s mad,” Flora muttered, “doesnae ken what he says. He still loves me, always will.” Luisa stuck her head around the corner, watching in silence as Flora headed for the stairs. The hem of her skirts found its way under Flora’s stumbling feet when— 

It all happened so quickly. With her unsteady gait, Flora stepped on her skirt and fell down the stairs, decanter shattering on the stone below, crystal shards spraying everywhere. Flora screamed for help before her temple caught the sharp corner of the moulding with a nauseating crunch. Luisa ran to the stairs, shouting for the steward.

* * *

Alain Trevelyan folded the last tunic and closed his valise with trembling hands. A week after he’d heard of Vael surviving the poisoning, a mysterious man arrived at the Ostwicker court. No one knew his true name, only that he’d come from Starkhaven, but Alain had recognized the crest on the man’s brooch. He was Drummond’s man, and it had only meant one thing: Drummond was after Alain. He had chastised himself for his paranoia, until Alain found a note under his door one day.

‘ _Some knots cannae be untied, only severed. -D’_

It was too dangerous to stay. Alain’s sudden ‘holiday’ to Antiva had taken nearly everyone he knew by surprise. Lord Trevelyan let himself into Alain’s room with a sigh.

“I wish ye would reconsider, boy,” he said, “the roads are so treacherous this time of year.”

“I’ll be fine, Da,” Alain replied. He forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat. “It’ll do me good, the physician said. Ostiwck’s too cold for me in the winter.”

“But—” Alain put his hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Da, I can’t stay in Ostwick; I _must_ go.” He skated around the truth, knowing his father’s health had declined. He felt even more remorse for agreeing to frame Cecily. Even if Vael _had_ survived, he knew the gruesome end in store for her. Alain shook his head to chase the visuals away. Her blood was on his hands; he could never forgive himself for this… 

“I’ll write as soon as I reach an inn,” Alain said to his father in as cheery a tone as he could muster.

“Ye’re staying with the Montalvos, ye said? I’ll await your letter. And _no_ flirting with the man’s daughter; I have a girl in mind for ye here.”

“Of course, Da,” he replied.

“...I’ll miss ye, boy,” Lord Trevelyan said, tears formed in his eyes. “This is the first time ye’ll be leaving since yer mother’s passing.” Alain wrapped his arms around his father and embraced him.

“I’ll miss ye, too,” he said, blinking hard, “a-and I’ll not be gone long, just until the spring; then ye’ll come join me, yes? For a holiday in Antiva.”

“Yes,” his father wiped his eyes, “yes, a holiday in Antiva. Leave all this Starkhaven nonsense behind; it’ll do us both good.”

His father escorted Alain to the stables. It wasn’t ideal—Alain had wanted to leave quietly, to not attract attention—but there was no dissuading his father. He tied his valise to his saddle and mounted his horse.

“Give Cecily me farewell,” Alain said, blinking hard. “...I love ye, Da.”

“And I, ye, boy,” his father replied. Alain couldn’t help but feel as though this would be the last time he’d see his father. He shook off the foreboding and spurred his horse to a canter, relieved that he’d finally evaded his mysterious shadow.

Or had he?

Shortly en route he heard the hoofbeats of a horse behind him. Alain threw a glance over his shoulder and gasped. It was the man from court, cloak flying behind him as he galloped towards Alain, he spurred his horse on.   
He sped down the road, barely controlling his horse as they dodged ruts and ice on the path. An arrow whizzed over Alain’s shoulder while he searched furiously for a place to hide. He kneed his horse into a breakneck speed, nearly standing in his stirrups. The wind was biting, frigid as it burned his skin and left it raw. His cloak did little to shield him from the cold; he was trembling, teeth chattering and heart pounding. 

There, up ahead, was a forest. Alain urged his horse towards it, crashing through the leafless undergrowth and into the dense thicket. A low hanging branch caught him in the chest and sent Alain flying off his horse. He gasped for air, groaning in agony. His lungs and chest were in searing pain, but he staggered to his feet, limping away as fast as he could. Panic set in; Alain’s horse was gone and his assailant continued his hunt. 

An arrow lodged itself in the tree beside him. Alain ran towards the road, dodging rocks and branches.

The road was deserted, but Alain still clung to hope. He’d passed farmhouses on the way; perhaps someone would aid him. The brambles caught on his cloak near the road embankment. He fought his way forward, struggling to free himself, but to no avail. The thorns snagged the fabric and ripped his skin, refusing to let go. An arrow whizzed by, then another. Alain’s fingers, still numb with the cold, fumbled with his cloak pin.

“Damn,” he cursed, “come on.” Seconds became hours, minutes felt like days. Alain finally managed to unpin his cloak, scrambling up the embankment. The last thing he saw was a black blur speeding towards him, and it did not miss its target. 


	27. Of Accidents and Assassins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Annalucia, as always, for beta-ing. And sending virtual hugs to you all, my readers: you never fail to bring smiles to my face <3 <3 <3

Sebastian had been home less than an hour when there was a knock at the door. “Sebastian,” Aveline shouted, “Sebastian, are you there?” Nothing good could come from the Captain of the Guard sounding so urgent,’ he was certain. Sebastian furrowed his brow, opening the door to a very grim Aveline. 

“Aveline, ye alright? What’s happened?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I just came from the Harimanns,” she replied. “There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? What do ye mean?” She heaved a sigh.

“It’s Flora, she...fell down the stairs.”

“Why would they call ye if she fell...oh no!” He grabbed the edge of the door, eyes wide as the realization sunk in. “Oh, sweet Andraste.”

“I’m so sorry,” Aveline replied.

A whirlwind of emotions consumed him. Surprise—not that she’d fallen, but that it’d been fatal. Guilt for the relief he felt. But the most prevalent emotion was fear. Had he been the last person to visit Flora? Sebastian swallowed hard as he recalled his conversation with the Teyrn of Ostwick. He had requested a peaceful solution to dissolve his betrothal to Flora, but what if this ‘accident’ was no accident at all, but the Teyrn’s doing? His stomach flipped at the thought, his heart pounding.

Fenris rounded the corner with a book under his arm. “I _thought_ I heard voices,” he said. “Aveline, how are you? How’s Donnic? Come in, it's cold in the vestibule—”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay, I’m here on business and need to get back to the Harimanns,” she replied. “I’ll no doubt see you later.” With that she left, Sebastian standing like a statue, staring ahead, eyes wide.

“Why is she at the Harimanns’?” Fenris asked. “Seb? What happened?”

“Flora,” Sebastian whispered. “She’s dead.” Fenris’s expression shifted, eyes widening.

“ _Venhedis_ , what? H-How?”

“They think she fell down the stairs, but I-I ken better, Fenris. It was the Teyrn.”

“You don’t know that,” Fenris replied, voice infuriatingly calm. “We can’t jump to conclusions, especially since Drummond framed Cecily with that forged letter.”

“They said they’d take care of me betrothal. They _said_ they’d do it peacefully, Fen, but—”

“You have no proof it was them,” he said firmly.

“ _Who else would want her dead?_ ”

Fenris pressed his hand to his sternum to calm himself, candles flickering from his magic. “…We all knew Flora was a drunkard. It was a matter of time before something happened, either from the drink or through a complication from it.” Sebastian held his head in his hands, panic running rampant through him like a wild horse.

“I’ll be hung at the Gallows for this, mark me words. T-They’ll take ye all away and turn ye Tranquil; Leto will never see his family again. They’ll find out I was tryin’ to break the betrothal—”

 _“Stop this, Sebastian. Get a hold of yourself!”_ Fenris shook his shoulders. “We truly had nothing to do with this, understand? Nothing at all.”

“ _Ye_ dinnae understand: I could be the last person to have seen Flora alive. We quarreled; the whole house heard.”

Fenris sighed. “Start at the beginning, tell me everything,” he said. Sebastian mentioned every detail he could recall, down to how Flora’s hands trembled as they clutched the decanter. Fenris attempted to hide his grave expression.

“...We’re going to the Harimanns,” he said as he tied on his cloak. “You need to pay your respects and pose as the grieving bridegroom. Tell them exactly what you told me.”

“But—” Fenris departed for the atrium, shouting something to Rana and Varania in Tevene before arranging Sebastian’s cloak on his shoulders. He herded him out the door, Sebastian putting up no protest.

It felt unreal, as though it was all a strange, horrific nightmare instead of a Wednesday afternoon. Sebastian wandered down the street to the Harimann estate, praying that Aveline was correct in calling this an accident.

“When you speak to the guard,” Fenris was saying, “pretend you’re talking about Cecily...without mentioning her name.” His words pierced through the fog clinging to Sebastian’s skull.

“Why?” he asked, head still unclear. Fenris gave him a look.

“The words will be more convincing, that way,” he replied. He knocked on the front door, concern in his eyes while he escorted Sebastian in. The Harimanns’ porter led them into the atrium, where Sebastian and Flora had stood not even an hour prior. Her shrieks still bounced off the stone and rang in his ears. Sebastian winced at the memory of it.

“I’m glad you’re here. If you please, I have some questions,” Aveline said, leading them to an impromptu interrogation room. “Sebastian, I understand from the stewards' testimonies that you were the last person to see Flora Harimann alive. Tell me what happened.”

Sebastian startled, as if coming out of a dream. Fenris gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and Sebastian plunged in head-first, relaying the events of the ill-fated visit. 

“Where were you this afternoon, between the time of two to three bells?” Aveline asked.

“I returned home around two bells,” Sebastian said. “I-I was helping—”

“Can you provide a witness to your claim?”

“I—”

“I can attest, Aveline,” Fenris replied. “We were tutoring my nephew. You can confirm it with my sister, if you wish.” Thank the Maker for Fenris and his quick tongue. Sebastian nodded his thanks, answering whatever else Aveline asked. He was most relieved when the questions ceased and they both were dismissed.

“Well done,” Fenris whispered, “that wasn’t easy. None of this has; it’s been a sad, disturbing afternoon.” They lingered in the atrium. Even if they’d been excused for the time being, Sebastian knew better than to leave just yet. The ‘Grieving Bridegroom’ had to still pay his respects to his former future father-in-law. He crossed the atrium to the drawing room. Ser Harimann sat before the fire, staring, face glistening from tears. Sebastian knocked and entered.

“…They say she would’ve survived, had she fallen an inch to the right,” Ser Harimann said, voice hollow, forgoing greetings. “Claimed she was too intoxicated to walk, they did.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Sebastian replied, unsure what else to even say. The man scoffed a laugh.

“Ye ought to be,” he spat, “ye’ve cost me everything.” The man gripped the carved arm of his chair. “Me wife, me son, me daughter: yer precious throne claimed them all, at the end.”

Sebastian stared at him in disbelief. “I-I did no such thing. Yer son married into the Reids to further yer family’s standing in Starkhaven, Harimann; I never asked for it. That was yer own doing. And yer wife reaped the rewards of her wickedness.”

“What of Flora, hm? She was innocent. She didnae deserve such a fate—”

“Ye’re right, but she kenned well what she was doing: she was Goran’s betrothed before mine; she _wanted_ the throne. Didnae matter how or who she’d use to get it; she didnae care for me, just the Vael name.”

“But she _did_ : do ye ken how often she wept over ye, how much she cared for ye? She’s loved ye since ye were children; ye drove her to drink and broke her heart with yer scorn and disdain. Had ye not quarreled today, she wouldnae have drowned her sorrows.” Sebastian stiffened at the accusation. His hands balled into fists.

“We were betrothed for five months, Harimann; she changed so much over the years, she was like a stranger.”

Ser Harimann rose from his chair, weary. “I’m done,” he said with finality. “I’ll not give ye a single copper more, Vael. I’ve given enough for the Starkhavener throne.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “W-What? Harimann, ‘tisn’t the time to discuss business. We can speak of this another time.”

“Nay, now, Vael. I’ve had me fill of politics.” 

“What of the army? The supplies? T-The salaries?”

“Go bother the Ostwickers for it, I dinnae care.”

“But—”

“Me daughter’s betrothal banquet has just become her funeral, Vael: I’ve lost everything. None of it matters, anymore. Get out.” There was nothing more to say. Sebastian and Fenris turned and left Ser Harimann staring into the fire. Aveline approached them in the atrium.

“We’ve finished our investigation,” she said, “it’s clearly an unfortunate accident. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Sebastian.” 

“Thank ye, Aveline. This has been… I-I need to get home now. Give our best to Donnic.” He leaned on Fenris’s arm for support, feeling drained. “I ken he’s a grieving man, Fenris,” Sebastian said on the way home, “but I dinnae think he’ll change his mind. I’ll explain to the Ostwickers, ask them to cover campaign expenses, but in the meantime, for yer salary…”

“Sebastian, let’s talk about this later,” Fenris replied. “We’ll pull through this, you’ll see. Let’s talk to Rana when you’re ready; she always knows what to do.” Sebastian nodded, saying prayers under his breath for Flora and grateful to put the nightmare that was the Harimanns behind him. 

* * *

His first realization was the burning, aching cold. Alain opened his eyes and gasped: the gray-white ice, closed in on him as he lay face-down in the snow. A finger twitch sent fire up his arm, agony coursed through his body as the arrowhead shifted in his flesh. The nightmarish afternoon trickled back in, visions of Drummond’s assassin hunting and shooting him down—

He winced at the memory, inching himself up onto his elbows, staring out towards the road in the increasing gloom. His surroundings spun, making his stomach churn; there was one thought on his mind, one that pierced through the dizziness and grounded him in the present:

Vengeance. 

“I’ll kill him,” Alain whispered, “I don’t care what it takes, I’ll kill Percival Drummond.”

He wanted to leave immediately to put his plan in motion. Drummond’s man was still on the road, no doubt to report to his master back in Starkhaven. Alain could catch up with him, once he found his horse. The assassin couldn’t have more than a two-hour start—

Alain forced himself to his knees in the cold, slushy mud, and doubled over from the pain.  
He couldn’t travel far with this arrow bristling from his shoulder. He had to find someone to remove it. Alain grit his teeth and unsheathed his dagger, heaving breaths through his nose. In one swift motion, he cut the arrow shaft, biting back a scream.

“B-Breathe,” he said, “breathe through it.” Black spots danced before his eyes, the world went blurry. Alain steadied himself until the wave of white-hot pain passed. Pursing his lips, he whistled loudly for his horse, breath pluming. He whistled several times while he kneeled in the road, darkness closing in on him. He’d almost given up hope when he heard the jingle of tiny silver bells. He knew those bells; Cecily had gifted them for his favorite bridle. Alain laughed from joy, eyes filling from relief.

“Thank the Maker for ye, Cici,” he whispered, rising to his feet and following the sound. His horse pawed through the snow, grazing on frozen grass at the side of the road not too far from him. Alain eased himself into the saddle as gently as he could, biting back the scream, and urged his horse into a trot down the road, praying he’d find a village or town soon.

The rest of the trip was foggy, at best. Alain’s injury throbbed with his heartbeat, liquid fire coursing through his veins. It drove him to distraction, as he clutched the reins. He trembled partly from cold, but mostly from pain. Would this forest ever end, he wondered? The cloudy sky foretold a dark, snowy night, and he couldn’t hold on much longer. 

The faint glow of distant torchlight caught his attention, hope surged within him. It would be the town of Welby, if his memory served him well. He again spurred his horse into a trot, wincing as the gait jostled his shoulder. The jingling bells on his bridle faded in and out of earshot; his chin dipped to his chest a few times as exhaustion sank in. A thought came to him through the mist of pain and sleep shrouding him: Drummond’s man was likely at the inn. Alain’s eyes widened at that. He couldn’t risk meeting him in this state, the man would surely finish what he’d started.

“Halt! State yer business here,” a guardsman called.

“I...” what could he say that wouldn’t scream ‘fugitive?’ “Traveler. I seek rest for the night. Where is yer inn?” He used a thick, rough accent, suitable for a merchant at the docks rather than a royal courtier. 

“Just inside the wall, the Pewter Pot. Can’t miss it.” Alain nodded.

“A-And yer healer? I met with misfortune on the road, took a spill off me horse.”

“Chantry Infirmary. Take a left at the center of town.”

“Much obliged.” Alain slowed his horse to a walk. The expensive silver bells sparkled in the torchlight, betraying his wealth and status more than any cultured accent could. He prayed the guardsman was too distracted by the cold to notice.

Alain rode his horse up the ‘Main Street,’ past the now closed shops. He stopped at the hitching post before the Chantry; the pain nearly took his breath away when he dismounted.

“Get to the door,” he told himself, staggering towards the entrance. “Just get to the door.” 

“Maker’s Blessing be with ye,” a Templar standing guard said.” Alain’s knees went weak, he felt himself going down.

“Help,” he heard himself say, voice far-off and distant. “Please.” The stone steps rose to meet him, and Alain knew no more.

When he awoke, shadows danced on the whitewashed wall before him. Alain furrowed his brow in confusion. Had...he died?

“I’m glad ye’re awake,” a woman said. “I tended yer wounds, and gave ye something for the pain.”

He turned; a Chantry Sister smiled back at him from under her novice’s wimple. She was young, with a very familiar face. Had Alain been in possession of his wits, he probably would’ve recognized her, but alas. His eyes refused to stay open for more than a few minutes.

“Thank ye,” he whispered, half-asleep. “I-I’m most grateful.”

“We have many travelers in Welby,” she began, “but none who’d been hunted down with a bow.” Her voice went hard with disapproval, startling him awake. 

“M-Me enemies,” he stuttered. “Me enemies sent a man to kill me on the road. Please, Sister: no doubt the man is still at the Pewter Pot as we speak. If he hears I’m here, I’ll be done for.”

She raised her eyebrow. “And what crime have ye committed that this man pursues ye so?”

‘Treason’ was the truthful, shameful answer, one that made Alain hang his head in regret. “I... knew too much,” he replied, “I left to shield me family from harm.”

“...Ye’re a Trevelyan,” she said. “I’d recognize that signet ring anywhere.” He instinctively hid his hand in the sheets, although it was too late for that, he supposed.

“H-How did ye know?” he asked. The Sister scoffed a laugh and unpinned her wimple.

“That valerian root must be stronger than I thought, if ye can’t even recognize yer own cousin, Alain.” Alain’s jaw dropped. Her hair was a bit mussed, but there was his cousin, Agatha.

“Aggie,” he cried, taking her hand in his. “Sweet Andraste, girl: Why did ye not tell us ye were transferred? We would’ve visited ye.”

Agatha bit her lip. “Visitors are prohibited for novices, ye know that.”

“But ye should’ve said in yer letters—”

“Letters? None of me letters have made it outside the Chantry; they were all destroyed.” He stared at her.

“...But I don’t understand, we’ve received letters from ye.”

Sadness clouded her features. “Forgeries, the lot of them.”

“What? _Why?_ ”

She laughed bitterly. “Why do ye think? So I couldn’t write to Thom. Me Da’s idea, no doubt.” He sighed. Alain’s uncle had sent Aggie away to discourage her from seeing her lover, Thom. He would never forget how she’d gone kicking and screaming…

“The Grand Cleric caught me a week after me arrival... in the stairwell, with me Thom,” her face went red. “Punished me by sending me here.” His jaw dropped.

“Maker’s Breath, Aggie, are ye daft? Ye’re a Sister now: ye can’t lie with a _stableboy_ , of all the things!”

“But I love him.” Her hand went to her slightly distended stomach, eyes filling. “Alain. Alain, I’m—” His head fell against the pillow as he let out his air. Of course she was with child; four months along, if his calculations were correct...

“They’ll send the child away as soon as it’s born,” she cried, “I won’t even see it.” 

“And this Thom is a good man?” Alain asked. 

“He’s not stopped searching for me; he’s come here several times, but the Revered Mother locked me in me chambers.” The man seemed sincere in his affections, especially if he came searching for her. He’d no doubt do whatever it took to provide for Aggie and their child, once he knew of it. Alain nodded, mind made up.

“Listen,” he whispered, “take me horse and three sovereigns from me purse. Get yerself to the coast and book passage to Kirkwall: find Brother Vael and tell him ye’re a friend of Cecily Seymour; he’ll help ye.” His heart sank at even mentioning Cecily’s name. Agatha’s eyes widened.

“What? Ye can’t help a Sister escape the Chantry, Alain, that’s heresy!” she exclaimed.

“Why not? Have ye taken yer final vows?”

“N-No, but—”

“Then ye’re still free to leave, and leave ye shall.” She looked at him in disbelief.

“…Why are ye doing this?”

‘ _Redemption_ ,’ he answered silently. ‘ _Penance for me sins._ ’ “I know what it’s like to not be with the one ye love; I’d not wish it on anyone,” he said aloud. His cousin’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

“…Ye’ve a good heart, Alain Trevelyan,” she whispered, wrapping him in a hug. “May the Maker bless ye.” He bit back the groan when her hand accidently hit his wound.

“Go on, go pack. Leave just before everyone wakes, it’s not far. Sail at dawn. And write yer Thom once ye arrive: I’ll not have me efforts wasted on an unhappy ending.” Agatha grinned at him.

“I can’t thank ye enough,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I-I truly mean it, Alain; this means the world to me.” He smiled sadly. 

“Go, Maker be with ye,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Hurry along.” He settled among the pillows and watched his cousin rush from the room. “If only me own troubles were so easily solved,” he whispered.

Alain considered his options. He had to leave Welby as soon as possible, if only he knew where to go. The road north to Starkhaven and Drummond was out of the question, as that was also his assailant’s destination. His head fell against the headboard with a groan.

“‘Some knots cannae be untied, only severed,’” he muttered, quoting Drummond’s note as an idea came to him. The room was now shrouded in darkness from the dying fire, the blankets and sheets cold to the touch. Alain shivered.

* * *

Percival Drummond stared into the fire, ruminating over the recent chain of disasters spoiling his plans. Vael still wasn’t dead, and Drummond knew Vael was investigating the forged letter framing Cecily Seymour. Soon, they’d discover the truth behind it, and Drummond’s efforts would be for naught. Ostwick would no longer be implicated, the alliance would still form. At least that unreliable Trevelyan would no longer betray him... 

“Good riddance to ye,” Drummond muttered. If his calculations were correct, his man would arrive any day now, with news of Alain’s demise. He could rest assured that his secret was secure, at least, but Alain’s insurrection still disturbed him. How long before his other supporters rose up against him and blocked his way to the throne?

Drummond heaved a sigh and left his apartments, winding his way down the palace corridor towards Prince Goran’s quarters. He had to keep up appearances to avoid suspicions—he’d successfully orchestrated the Prince’s hunting ‘accident,’ after all: if he wanted to keep his neck out of the noose, he would need to feign worry and concern. Drummond knew every move, every word spoken—even his dress and demeanor—were noted and circulated around the court. He forwent his usual gray gown and doublet for a pious, loyal blue to profess his ‘sincerity.’

“Lord Drummond approaches,” the porter in the antechamber announced. Drummond altered his stride to appear humble and subservient, instead of the future owner of the royal apartments.

“Me Lord,” the court physician said with a deep bow, “ye honor us with yer presence.” Drummond waved away the words, eyes settling on the prone figure in the bed.

“How is the Prince?” He asked, covering his nose. The arrow wound on Goran’s shoulder stunk through its dressings, red streak peeking out under the bandages. Goran moaned, hair sticking to his sweaty skin.

“He festers,” the physician replied. “The fever still rages.” He instructed his assistants to prepare more dressings and leeches. “The humors are out of balance; once we drain the excess, the fever will dissipate.” He unwound the bandages, revealing the swollen, angry purple-red flesh. As soon as his assistants’ backs were turned, he gave Drummond a knowing look and mixed more toxic white powder in the salve before applying it to the wound. Drummond hid his smile.

“Sweet Andraste, preserve him,” Drummond bowed his head in mock sorrow. He recited verses from the Chant, as any person would when at a sickbed. “I’d like a word, please,” he said, motioning for the physician to follow him into the corridor. 

“How long?” Drummond whispered, once certain they were out of earshot.

“A week, if that,” the physician replied. “If the poisoned salve doesnae finish him, the festering will.”

“Too long, make it stronger,” Drummond said. “Vael yet lives. I must take the throne before he can retaliate.”

“Me lord, the court will be suspicious at such an escalation—”

Drummond leaned in, “dinnae fail me,” he said. “I want him dead as soon as possible.” The physician bowed with promises, Drummond didn’t pay them heed. He returned to his quarters, pouring himself a glass of wine. “To the fall of House Vael,” he said, raising his wine towards the fireplace in a toast. “Long live Prince Drummond, and long may he rule.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note I: The Pewter Pot (or ‘peauterpotte,’ as it was spelled) was a real tavern in Medieval London, found in Ironmonger Lane in Cheapside. The name was recorded 1423-1426 by William Porland, the clerk for London’s fraternity of Brewers.
> 
> Note II: Welby was an actual village in Leicestershire, now since abandoned


	28. Carriages and Conspiracies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy February, my lovelies! Sending you many hugs and well wishes. Thank you, as always, for your support and readership, and a huge thanks to my beta, AnnaLucia <3 <3

Fenris set his spectacles aside and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He and Sebastian had been taking stock of the campaign in its entirety all morning, inventorying everything from tents to food to fletching for arrows, preparing the list for the Ostwickers.

“Seems we covered everything, save the Harimanns,” Sebastian said. “I... dinnae think a letter is wise, especially after Drummond and the forgery. If Drummond heard we’ve lost the Harimanns, we’d be done for.”

Fenris blinked at him in surprise. “Are you suggesting we go to the court _in person_ to tell them? All the way to Ostwick?”

“Ye said it yerself that we must secure their support as soon as possible.”

Fenris fell against the back of his seat. “Yes, but—it’s two weeks away in good weather, let alone the winter. And Rana won’t want me to leave without her.”

“We cannae put the entire campaign in peril, no matter what; ye ken that, Fen. We’re going, we have to.” 

“We’ll have to arrange for security to protect the girls and Leto,” Fenris replied.

“Aye, of course. Or I’d spend a fortnight on the road with a worried wreck of a Commander-in-Chief!” 

Fenris shivered at the mere thought of how cold of a trip it would be. “We can take a carriage, yes?”

“A carriage will take too long,” Sebastian replied.

His eyes widened with incredulity. “…We are _not_ riding there. You literally just recovered from poison; it’s too much for you.”

“Fen, I’m stronger than I look—” 

“The _last_ thing we need is you falling ill.” Fenris’s tone broached no argument. Sebastian huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

“…I can finally introduce ye to Cecily,” he said as a way to make the trip sound more appealing. “Ye’ll like her; she reminds me of Rana.”

“I’m sure she’s most fair, but don’t forget, you _must_ keep playing your role as the grieving bridegroom, for the campaign’s sake.” 

“But one year’s mourning?” Sebastian protested. “Fenris, we dinnae have a _year_. I fear we dinnae have till the spring, what with Drummond and his schemes.” He groaned. “…I dinnae fancy traveling now, either, but we have no choice.”

A headache set in just thinking about Rana’s protests. “We’d best tell the girls, then, make travel arrangements—” Fenris replied.  
  
“Maamaji!” Leto cried, running into the room.

Fenris startled, jumping to his feet. “What happened?” he asked, kneeling to inspect his nephew. “Are you alright?” Leto squirmed away from his grasp, practically hopping in place with excitement. The dogs also picked up on his enthusiasm, wagging their tails and jumping.

“Maamaji, the rain looks funny,” Leto exclaimed, “it’s white!”

Fenris blinked at him. “It...is?” It took a moment for the boy’s words to sink in. Fenris laughed, grinning as he ruffled Leto’s hair. “Call your mother, it’s our first snow!” He crossed the atrium and burst into the music room, dogs at his heel. “Ran, get your cloak!”

She nearly upset the inkpot and ruined the piece she was transcribing. “Get my cloak? Why?”

“It’s snowing!” The look of excitement on her face warmed his heart as she rounded the desk and ran for the door.

“I’ve never seen snow in person,” she said, “only in books.”

“I’ll never forget my first snow,” he replied, tying on his cloak. “I was crossing the mountains into Kirkwall, with nothing but the clothes on my back and my sword: didn’t even have a cloak or proper boots.” He scoffed a laugh. “This time will be much more enjoyable: you’ll be there.” He took her hand in his and set off for the atrium to rejoin the others.

Even if he’d lived in Kirkwall for six years, Fenris still felt like a boy whenever the first snows came. Only Sebastian had understood his excitement and wonder. He gave Sebastian a knowing smile as he led the others to the back door to the courtyard.

“Wait! Wait!” Rana cried, as she hurried down the hall, returning with an arm full of knitwear. “Everyone, come here, put these on. I read how cold snow is.” Leto was beyond excited to wear his new scarf, hat, and mittens. 

“Ready? Happy First Snow!” Fenris exclaimed. The entire household huddled together, barely out the door, stunned.

“It’s—” his sister was at a loss for words. “I-I could’ve never imagined anything like this!” She held out her hand and caught a snowflake. “It’s so cold on my face!”

“It comes from the sky already frozen,” Fenris explained. Leto dashed into the courtyard, spinning with his arms open wide. The dogs bolted after him, leaving a web of pawprints in their wake.

“It’s beautiful and so fluffy,” Rana said, grinning.

Sebastian laughed. “Ye thought it was cold on yer face, Varania, try this: _ahh_ ,” he said. The sight of dignified Sebastian bobbing to and fro with his tongue out to catch snowflakes was too irresistible. Fenris laughed, mouth open and head up.

“Try it,” he said. “Try and catch one, Ran.” Varania and Leto followed suit, giggling to see everyone trying to catch snowflakes.

“I think…” Fenris crouched, sweeping the snow into a pile before packing it in his palms. “I have enough for a… snowball!” He pelted it at Sebastian, catching him square in the chest. Sebastian gasped in mock outrage, picking up a handful of snow and chasing Fenris around the courtyard with it.

“I’ll get ye,” he cried, “just ye wait, Fenris El-Khoury! Come back here!” He was laughing too hard to run very far. The others joined in, throwing half-formed snowballs at each other while the dogs jumped trying to catch them. Fenris’s cheeks ached from smiling—and the cold, but mostly from smiling. He etched every sensation in his heart, to cherish forever. 

“After the snow builds up, lad,” Sebastian said to Leto, “yer uncle and I will teach ye how to make snow elves and snow mabari. Would ye like that?” The boy’s eyes widened.

“Really? Snow elves? I’ve never seen a snow elf!” he said.

“We learned how to make them from the Champion of Kirkwall, herself.”

“Can we make a snow dragon, Maamaji?” 

“Whatever you like,” Fenris promised, hanging back a bit to walk inside with Rana. His hand slipped into hers. “I’ve dreamt of this day, seeing the snow falling around you,” he said quietly. She was so lovely with her eyes bright and laughing, her cheeks rosy from the cold, the snowflakes clinging to her hair like tiny pearls. He reached out and gently pushed her hair from her face, hand lingering on her cheek. 

“You’re my everything, Ran,” he whispered.

“ _Bhebak atooul_ , Fen,” she said. 

“Be tool _what_?” 

“‘ _Bhebak atooul_.’ it means ‘I will always love you!’” Rana giggled. “Thank you for making our first snow so fun, I’ll never forget it.”

He was very grateful Varric Tethras wasn’t present, because their first kiss in the snow would no doubt be featured in the newest chapter of _The Songstress and The Swordsman_ , as would the embrace that followed it. Perhaps even the glances they stole at each other during dinner.

“No Puppy Eyes at table,” Sebastian teased, “like two children, ye are.” Fenris’s hand found Rana’s under the table and squeezed.

“Either ye’re overfond of yer beets to be smiling like that, or ye’re holding hands under the table. Again.” Sebastian shook his head and laughed. “I hope Cecily and I will love each other as ye two do. Speaking of Cecily…”

Fenris knew what was coming next. He let go of Rana’s hand and cleared his throat, explaining their planned course of action. The disappointment in the others’ faces was palpable.

“Oh no! So soon? I’m coming with you,” Rana gasped, eyes wide. “There’s no way you’re leaving without me.”

“You can’t come this time,” Fenris said with a sigh. “It’s too dangerous at court now, things will be unstable. We have important negotiations to attend to.”

“I’m coming, Fen. We’ve never been apart before; don’t leave me, _us_ here.”

Fenris took her hand. “Rana, I need you _here_ ,” he replied. “We’re leaving Kirkwall; I need you and Varania to pack the house and make the arrangements for the move by the time we return. Do you understand me?” She frowned, but nodded. He let out a sigh of relief.

“We’ll arrange for security to keep ye safe,” Sebastian said. “Ye dinnae have to worry.”

“But it’s _winter_ ,” Rana protested, “how are you going to travel in this weather? It would take forever.”

“Not by fast horse,” Sebastian said, “Two weeks, perhaps—” 

“Riding a horse for two weeks?! What would we do if you fell ill on the road? You’ve just recovered, Sebastian, you can’t push yourself so hard.”

“That’s what _I_ said,” Fenris replied. “We shall take a carriage.”

“But it’ll take nigh three weeks,” Sebastian protested, “we need to arrive as soon as possible. Maker kens what Drummond—” Fenris cleared his throat to interrupt, inclining his head towards Leto. Sebastian censored himself with a sigh.

“…I know you’d prefer something faster,” Varania said, “but with a carriage, we won’t have to worry about you two out braving the weather. Because we _would_ worry: wouldn’t we, Leto?” It was a genius move to involve Leto in this; Fenris looked to his sister in admiration. If anyone could get through to Sebastian, it would be Leto: he had such a soft spot for the little boy.

Leto agreed. “It’s so cold; what if you froze into a statue?”

“Yes, with icicles on our noses,” Fenris added. “We’d be frozen like this until spring,” he struck a ridiculous pose to make Leto laugh. Rana smiled.

“Or like… this!” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, much to Leto’s delight. When even solemn Varania joined in, Sebastian finally relented.

“Alright, alright: a carriage it is. I’ll send word by raven tomorrow for the court to expect us.” Fenris raised his glass.

“To carriages, foot stoves, and to the future Prince of Starkhaven,” he said as a toast, “and to you finally using some damned common sense,” he muttered in Tevene. Rana and his sister hid their laughter in their glasses, eyes betraying their amusement. The very air of the room lightened; seemed their trip to Ostwick wouldn’t be as arduous and frigid as he’d initially thought.

* * *

There was much to do in preparation for Ostwick. Rana and Varania worked together, picking formal attire for Sebastian and Fenris to wear at court. While they had a satisfactory amount of doublets and jerkins, none of them were warm enough for winter traveling. Much of the week was spent in the sewing room, stitching over-jackets and caps. Not that Rana knew her way around a needle: she followed Varania’s instruction, hemming and basting while Varania drafted patterns.

“How can you do that?” she asked her one day. “It seems so difficult.”

“I was a tailor in Minrathous,” Varania replied. “My husband, too. He taught me to draft.” There was sorrow in her eyes. “He taught me many things.”

“I’m sorry,” Rana said, “I…didn’t mean to bring him up.” Varania smiled sadly.

“You remind me of him, you know,” she replied, “always supportive of others and their endeavors.” She arranged a pattern over the murrey red wool. “My brother’s so fortunate to have someone like you, especially with such an important trip.”

Rana sighed. “I’m worried for him; I’ve heard so many things about Ostwick—”

“My brother spent years in Minrathous, surrounded by magisters and nobles: it makes the Ostwicker court look like child’s play. Out of the two of them, I worry for Sebastian.”

“But he grew up in a court, he was groomed for this. Fen wasn’t.”

“His experience and tenacity will prove him most formidable. Together, they’ll be victorious!” 

Thanking Varania, Rana hung the finished garments over her arm and went upstairs to Fenris’s room. Two large, half-packed trunks sat on the benches, surrounded by valises of toiletries, shoes, hose. Nearly all of Fenris’s wardrobe was there, even the horrendous red housecoat he’d worn when she’d first come to Kirkwall. She sighed; June felt like another lifetime ago.

Two strong arms wrapped around her waist, body molding against her back. “I missed you,” Fenris whispered in her ear between kisses. “It was unbearable.”

She laughed, reciprocating a kiss. “It’s only been an hour,” she replied.

“Felt like a month. Ostwick will feel interminable, I know it.” His hands trailed up her torso and found their way to her laces. Ever since the brands’ removal, Fenris had become a very passionate lover. He’d literally been touch-starved, after all, and now he couldn’t get enough of Rana and what he’d been missing. 

“Fenris—”

“The others are downstairs; we can afford a few minutes, yes?” He was so persuasive when he put his mind to it. Nimble fingers tugged her bow undone and loosened the lacings. His kisses were more insistent, trailing down her neck and shoulder in a way that made her tremble with pleasure. Roving hands went under her kirtle to unlace her stays, and she stifled a gasp.

“I-I need to tell you something, Fen.”

“Are you uncomfortable? I can stop.”

“No, it’s just—” he took it as an invitation to continue with renewed vigor. Rana gathered her reserves and turned to face him.

“ _Ya habibi_ , I’m… I want you to know, I’m late this month,” she said, praying he understood what she meant. Under any other circumstances, this would have been such a joyous occasion, but with the Siege of Starkhaven looming in the spring, and Sebastian’s recent poisoning…

Fenris furrowed his brow, trying to understand her words; he gasped once the realization hit him. “Y-You mean?” He swallowed hard, eyes moist. “Rana El-Khoury, are you saying you’re… I mean we?” 

“I’m not sure yet; Merrill can confirm it, but—” he helped her dress and escorted her downstairs to the vestibule.

“I’m coming with you,” he said, draping her cloak around her shoulders with care and herding her towards the front door.

She smiled at his fussing, “thank you, but you don’t have to, I was going to the market, anyway—”

“Rana! It’s our _baby_ , I want to be there,” he exclaimed, “you think I can do anything else while not knowing?”

Rana bit back the laugh, smoothing her hair while Fenris shouted their plans to his sister. His excitement was infectious; Rana couldn’t help feeling elated at just the thought of it. She’d always wanted a family, once she’d established her career and was flourishing. That dream could very well be a reality now—her joy momentarily overwhelmed the trepidation and concerns of the next few months.

They made their way to Lowtown, Fenris slowing his stride for her sake; no matter how many times she reassured him she was fine. “It’s best to take precautions while we still don’t know,” Fenris said. “Rana, I know you’re frightened. This should be a happy day, but with the campaign and all...” He stopped and turned her towards him, face solemn. “I’ll make arrangements for you to stay with the Seymours at their estate when you arrive in Ostwick. You’ll be safer there.” 

She nodded, relieved. “Thank you.” She knew what he was doing; even if he didn’t say as much, Fenris was meticulous with his planning.

“Since I won’t be there to protect you, you’ll have extra security. I can’t leave anything to chance, Ran. I could never bear losing any of you.” 

Rana reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. “I know you and Sebastian will secure Ostwick and Starkhaven,” she said. “We’ll make this work, Fenris, _together_ : I’ll always be by your side.” He covered her hand with his and stopped. 

“You know we had planned our wedding to be a big celebration, but it might be best to marry before we leave.” 

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, “Varania mentioned the traditional date for weddings is Summersday, the first day of summer—” 

“Yes, but I want to enter the city gates with you as my wife. This way, there’s no chance of scandal, from people looking to harm us.”

“I agree. And you’ll get your wish: you’ll be an El-Khoury sooner rather than later.” She smiled. “I didn’t expect to plan our wedding with everything else going on, _but_ … you’ve swept me off my feet.” He laughed, seizing her in an embrace and lifting her off the ground. 

“Now I’ve _truly_ swept you off your feet, wife.” ‘Wife.’ It was the most beautiful, sweetest name he could’ve ever called her. Her heart smiled at the word.

“Be careful,” she teased, “I could get used to that.”

“Good. That was my intention.” He took her hand in his and resumed their walk, rattling off good news and arrangements he’d made for their future. How he’d set aside money for a housekeeper and a tutor for Leto, once they’d arrive in Starkhaven. What symbols they should put on their family crest, the colors and the meanings. 

Rana enjoyed listening, yet all through his stories, she felt eyes on her. Not the usual feeling of being watched endemic to living in Kirkwall, but something else in addition to it, something more than the usual pickpockets and Templars. She stopped several times to look over her shoulder; the third time, a shadow ducked around the corner.

“I think someone’s following us,” she whispered to Fenris. “Since Hightown.” He tensed, hand going to his hilt.

“Keep walking,” he replied, “we’ll lose them in the slums.”

Rana hated taking the shortcut through the Lowtown slums. It stunk of old cabbage and desperation, a veritable maze of alleys and ramshackle hovels. They had an extended tour of them that day, thanks to Fenris leading her through the winding streets and sharp turns. They soon arrived at the Alienage gate, crossing the square to Merrill’s door, knocking as they sheltered from the cold sea spray sloshing over the sea wall. Faron’s deep bray announced their arrival, cut short by Merrill’s command in Elvhen.

“Rana! Fenris! Come in, come in, I’ll set tea on,” Merrill said with a smile. Rana threw another glance over her shoulder. Seemed whoever had been following them had given up. She sighed from relief.

“It’s so good to see you, what brings you here today?” Merrill asked. “You don’t usually come together, unless it’s very important.”

“I... require an examination,” Rana replied, face going hot. It was one thing to tell Fenris, but admitting this to her best friend would mean Merrill knowing about her...rather modern sleeping habits. Kirkwallers followed a strict code of propriety, where even holding hands in public was frowned upon. No doubt this news would scandalize Merrill thoroughly...

“Are you unwell? What are your symptoms?”

Rana exchanged a look with Fenris. “I’m...”

“Late!” he declared, pride and excitement clear on his face. “We believe she’s with child.” Rana braced herself; much to her surprise, Merrill’s eyes filled.

“Oh, _lethallan_ ,” she squealed, launching herself at Rana, throwing her arms around her. “I’m so happy for you both! What a blessing! Come, I’ll examine you in the clinic.” Merrill took her to the adjoining room, Fenris following. “If you don’t mind waiting outside, Fenris, it won’t take long.”

He blinked in surprise. “B-But—”

“Now, Fenris, I can’t work with an audience.” Merrill nudged him out the exam room door and hurried back, eyes twinkling. “Well? Is he a good lover? He certainly looks like the type; he’s so handsome,” she whispered, no doubt for nosy Fenris trying to peek through the door. Rana laughed in relief.

“He’s a wonderful lover, so gentle and romantic, although he’s... I have to pretend I’m sleeping, most mornings.” Merrill giggled.

“Most young men are that way. I have many wives often tell me of their ‘eager’ husbands. Come, lie here, please,” she added loudly, for Fenris’s benefit. Blue light pooled in Merrill’s palm, gentle and soothing as it washed over Rana’s abdomen. It soaked in like warm sunshine before abruptly stopping.

“Alright, we’re done, I’ll help you up.” Her words sounded too cheerful to Rana’s ears. 

“Well?” Rana asked. Merrill bit her lip.

“Not this time,” she replied. “I’m sorry.”

Rana stared. She ought to have been relieved to hear such news, happy to not have to deal with such a life-changing event during the upcoming transition, and yet. She turned to Merrill and smiled, concealing her disappointment. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Rana replied, “It’s for the best right now. I... wanted to ask if you could make me a remedy? J-Just until the difficulties at court have passed, and the time is right.” She fisted her hands in her skirts. Did they even _have_ contraceptives in this backwards place?

Merrill crossed the room, packing sachets of herbs in a sack. “Of course. Take these teas twice a day,” she said, “I’ll include something for Fenris, or, should I say, ‘Ser Romance-a-lot.’”

They giggled. “Thank you so much,” Rana said, “I’m truly grateful.” Merrill waved her words away with a smile. Rana gathered her things and opened the door, Fenris nearly falling into the room.

“Well, are we?” he asked, hopeful. Rana couldn’t find the words, merely shaking her head. He blinked.

“Oh,” he said. “O-Oh, that’s…” He trailed off and turned away, busying himself with petting Faron. After a cup of tea, they set off for home in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

“…It’s for the best,” Fenris said eventually, keeping his eyes ahead, “I’d be worried sick, with you riding in a bumpy carriage all the way to Ostwick. If you miscarried, I’d never forgive myself.”

He was right, she knew: he was _right_ , yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of profound disappointment settling in. “You’d be too distracted from the campaign, if I was with child,” Rana replied with a brave face, “we ought to be relieved from Merrill’s findings, not disappointed.”

“I know.” With eyes moist, he refused to look at her, focusing everywhere except in her direction, “i-it _is_ for the best, isn’t it?”

“For the best,” Rana echoed, voice dull and hollow. Fenris stopped in the middle of the Hightown Market, swallowing hard as he stared at her. She opened her arms in invitation; even as Fenris clasped her tightly to his chest, she couldn’t help again feeling eyes watching them… nor could she help noticing that mysterious shadow ducking behind the corner and out of sight.

* * *

Marian rounded the corner, pressing herself against the masonry as she shut her eyes and winced. Fenris holding that woman in public was too much to bear; the very idea of it inflamed her. It had looked like one of them was holding a sack of something, possibly teas and tinctures.

“Is she dying?” she asked herself. “That would be convenient.” It would also be melodramatic and heart wrenching, knowing Fenris’s attachment to the girl, but Marian would surely be there to console him when the time came. She’d make herself indispensable to him in his time of grief, and thus secure her place at his side. Marian smiled to herself; she’d nearly forgotten what joy felt like. To think that it was in her grasp, so close she could taste it…

To procure such happiness required a plan: if she truly wished to be rid of Rana El-Khoury, Marian needed to find a weak spot and strike hard. She eschewed her usual mercenary contracts for luncheons, teas, and dinner parties, listening for any gossip or rumors linked to House El-Khoury. She couldn’t ask outright after them: the nobles of Hightown circulated information and idle talk faster than any messenger raven. She dared not risk someone mentioning her inquiries about Fenris and Rana; thus Marian found herself at the de Launcet’s tea that afternoon, to seek information.

“Did you hear? There was a death at the Chantry,” their hostess, Comtesse de Launcet, said, “Sister Agatha.” A chorus of sighs and polite gasps followed, murmurings over what a tragedy it was. Marian made the appropriate responses and sipped her tea, secretly wishing she could be anywhere but the de Launcet’s drawing room. The room felt heavy with the overwhelming scent of Orlesian perfume and cosmetics.

“I heard it was poison,” a rather heavily painted woman said, “intended for that Brother Vael. Did you hear the Grand Cleric banished him and the El-Khourys for it?” Marian’s ears pricked up at ‘El-Khoury.’

“Barred them from attending Flora Harimann’s funeral, too,” the Comtesse was saying. “They actually had to wait outside the Chantry until after the recessional.” Her vermilion lip rouge left a smudge on her upper lip. “Such a scandalous affair, Flora’s death. It’s a wonder how Ser Harimann stood it.”

“‘Scandal?’ They said it was an accident,” Marian said. Her Fereldan accent sounded so coarse amongst the refined Hightown elocution. “Fell down the stairs, she did.”

Comtesse de Launcet scoffed. “Don’t tell me you actually _believe_ the Guard Captain, Lady Champion: Vael and the El-Khourys are close to her.”

“As am I.” Although Aveline’s visits had been growing more and more infrequent recently, now that Marian thought about it. Who was to say Sebastian hadn’t exploited his friendship with Aveline, to have her turn a blind eye? 

“Well, _I’ll_ tell you: Flora Harimann and Sebastian Vael argued so loudly, I heard them here, all the way next door. And _then_ she was dead, not an hour later. A crime of passion, if you ask me.”

“You read too many romance serials, Comtesse,” a noblewoman said. “Speaking of which: Varric Tethras has a new chapter of _The Songstress and the Swordsman_ out. Seems Reyna and Ferris are having a torrid love affair!”

Collective squeals and demands for details followed, none of which Marian paid much attention to. She had already read that chapter, in the name of her research. Between that and the ladies’ gushing over a new cut of stone at Gimmel’s jewelers, it wasn’t hard to piece together a picture: Fenris and Rana were now betrothed, despite living together and passing themselves off as a married couple. If the truth got out about their relationship, it would socially ruin them...

No, she couldn’t do that to Fenris, especially if she intended on being with him afterwards; the tarnish would spread to her and make her nearly as infamous. Marian pushed the idea aside, racking her brain for another.

All through that week of social events, she considered her rather slim options. Accusing Rana of blood magic would sound more like jealousy than an actual case against her. And while she _could_ call some favors in, have the Templars conduct a midnight raid on their house... Fenris would be imprisoned, also, with no hope for escape. Marian begrudgingly set aside that plan, nearly at the end of her wits when salvation came in a curious form: Varric.

Ever since moving into Isabela’s quarters at the Hanged Man, Marian had learned much more about Varric. The two of them may have been good friends, but she realized very quickly that, despite the close bond, she didn’t know Varric Tethras well. All day long, she observed the never-ending stream of businessmen, messengers, and spies traipsing through his door. Most stayed in the room no more than a half hour, but others... Marian had recently found two very convenient peepholes in Isabela’s wall, with the perfect view of Varric’s desk. Seemed Isabela was as curious about her neighbor’s dealings as Marian was.

“We need more eyes in Starkhaven, Varric,” a very familiar voice said. “I need to know what Drummond did to the sewers.” Marian’s heart thrilled. The last time she’d heard Fenris speak, was back at the Harimann wedding over the summer. To hear him now, after all this time…

“Elf, I already have men in Starkhaven,” Varric replied.

“Then why did they not know about the poisoned brandy? Why did they not intercept that forged letter? Why did I hear about Drummond’s renovations at Flora Harimann’s funeral banquet? Tell me that, Varric.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s right. Because Drummond bought your men; and if they were bought in Starkhaven, you can be sure the others in Ostwick and Kirkwall have been, too. You should’ve known this, Varric.”

“Then I’ll replace them immediately.”

Fenris scoffed. “So they can live on to serve Drummond?” The room fell into silence.

“Y-You want me to...?”

“No, I don’t, but we must take the necessary precautions, unsavory as they may be. The spies in Starkhaven are liabilities, and cannot be trusted. They’ve proven that. Get it done, Varric. Now.”

Marian’s eyes widened. She knew Fenris was Sebastian’s First in Command, but she’d never heard him speak in that manner, so… decisive and calculating. Even his body language had changed: gone were the days of him slouching, head bent. This Fenris was bold, knew what he wanted and did whatever he needed to obtain it. She looked at him in a new light.

“Sebastian and I are leaving for Ostwick by the end of the month. I need your _best_ men to watch over the girls and Leto; I’ll pay whatever the price.”

Varric nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts.” Fenris patted his shoulder in thanks.

“I’ll have your payment and salary at our weekly Card Night, is that sufficient?”

“Tell Rana to make those fine cookies she made last week; they were delicious.”

Fenris laughed. “I will. See you later, Varric, thank you again.” He drew up his hood and departed, leaving Varric with what Marian assumed was a massive headache.

Marian backed away from the peepholes and sat on Isabela’s bed, eyes narrowing in thought. ‘Salary.’ Seemed Varric and Fenris had a business arrangement, one Varric never mentioned to her. And, more importantly, Fenris would soon be out of town.

Marian fell back onto the mattress, hugging a pillow to her chest with a smile. She could use this new information to exploit Fenris’s absence. If Varric’s spy network had been compromised enough to let an assassination plot through, certainly an unexpected letter could slip past them, as well… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when plotting this chapter, I wanted something cheerful/happy, since the past chapters have been a bit heavy. I was so happy to discover that the average winter temps in Beirut were 10-20 C/50-67 F, and thus, Rana wouldn't have seen snow in person. That passage was such a fun thing to write. What fun memories do you have in the snow? :) 
> 
> Love,   
> Verdigirl <3


	29. Departures and Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many hugs and much love to you, my readers! And many thanks to AnnaLucia for beta-ing, as always. <3 <3

Alain Trevelyan sat propped up in his bed at the Welby Chantry’s infirmary, watching the fire burn low, contemplating his next moves. It was the morning after his cousin Aggie had escaped. Hopefully, she had enough of a start to bypass the Templars, and set sail before the winter storms set in. The seas around Ostwick were notorious for their fierce winter storms, claiming many vessels over the ages. Aggie was in the Maker’s hands, now; it was his own skin Alain had to worry about…

The Revered Mother of Welby was a pragmatic woman, one given to think with her purse strings rather than her heart. It was easy to buy her silence and cooperation; thus could Alain remain at the Chantry undetected while recovering, his assailant continuing north to Starkhaven.

“Does he truly think me dead?” Alain asked himself. “What’s to say he isn’t lying in wait for me nearby on the route to Starkhaven?”

He shuddered at the thought of the consequences of returning home, confessing to his father and facing the Teyrn: death for framing the royal family for murder was certain. 

“I was to be a Privy Councilor for Drummond,” he lamented, “and he twisted it into a noose.” 

A few days had passed before his wound could stand movement. The Revered Mother—or, rather, her purse—wanted him to stay a bit longer, but the sooner Alain could put this nightmare behind him, the better. He set out on a frigid morning for Ostwick.

It was nearly dark when he reached the city’s North Gate. Alain sighed in relief, cheeks biting from the cold. He was chilled to the bone riding all day, fingers numb despite his gloves. His stomach grumbled as he passed cheerful inns, the mouthwatering smell of savory pies on the wind. He would’ve liked nothing more but to stop for the night, but... 

Taverns were infamous haunts for spies and informants. He wouldn't dare alert one of Drummond’s spies to send a message to Starkhaven. Alain continued on his way, snowy fields and farms stretching in all directions until he reached the second of Ostwick’s famous walls and the city proper. 

The braying of hunting hounds announced his arrival at the royal stables. The guardsmen led his horse through the gate, the stablemaster ducking his head out the door to see what the ruckus was about.

“Me Lord Trevelyan,” the stablemaster said, “I’ll have me boy send yer bags along.”

To walk straight into the palace would invite all sorts of questions. Alain pulled up his hood and rounded the corner, heading towards the familiar, secluded alcove off the palace garden. He wound down the narrow stone corridors, passing the carved markers he’d left as a boy to guide himself back to the Trevelyan apartments. He pressed a stone in the wall and firmly pushed. The masonry swung on a hinge, leading right into his bedroom. Alain sighed in relief.

“Ye shouldn’t be here, Yer Highness,” he could hear his father say in the next room. “Should they find ye not in yer quarters—”

“I have a bit of time before me maids bring dinner, Lord Trevelyan,” Cecily replied, “I’ve put pillows under me covers and ordered not to be disturbed.” 

Alain’s heart fluttered at the sound of her voice. He rushed into his room, valise accidently bumping the nightstand, sending the candlestick clattering to the floor. The voices stopped abruptly, the sound of footsteps on stone fast approaching. Alain’s stomach clenched. He was half in a mind to back away and hide when his father burst into the room, dagger in hand.

“Sweet Andraste, boy,” he exclaimed, crossing the room to him and throwing his arms around his shoulders. Alain winced.

“I was worried sick about ye,” his father was saying, “ye’ve been gone a week, and ye never sent word—”

“I—” What could he say? He caught a glimpse of Cecily over his father’s shoulder, glaring at him.

“Speak,” she said, voice hard and cold. “We want answers now.” She was paler than he’d last seen her, thinner. Cecily stood rod-straight, regal despite her simple wool gown, terrifyingly inscrutable. The sight of her nearly took Alain’s voice away. He inhaled deeply and launched into an explanation. 

“So last month, when ye were gone for a fortnight...ye never went to visit yer cousins, did ye?” his father asked. “Ye rode all the way to Starkhaven…”

“Yes.”

His father scoffed. “And they even vouched for ye,” he muttered.

“I paid them to,” Alain replied, face hot with shame. “I couldn’t let ye know the truth—”

“I could’ve helped ye, had ye just said something. Now look what ye’ve done…”

“I had no choice; Drummond would’ve killed me—”

“What possessed ye to do this? What demon drove ye to murder and fraud?” Cecily asked, tone metallic from anger. Alain stared at her, trembling.

“I—” He floundered for the right words. 

She crossed the room to him. “Ye _wanted_ to ruin me? _Me?_ I can’t believe ye did this.”

His eyes filled. “I-I rode all the way to Starkhaven to stop that letter, Ceci. I left his service for what he did to ye—”

“ _Me Da put me under house arrest for a crime I never committed!_ ” she shouted.

“ _Drummond shot me and left me for dead!_ ” he screamed back.

“Be quiet, both of ye,” Lord Trevelyan warned, “the walls have ears.”

“...I was a fool,” Alain groaned. “I wanted more to me life than just our family estates. Drummond promised me a seat on his Privy Council, and the girl of me choice.”

Cecily scoffed. “Ye fool, I would’ve named ye me Councilor, when I became Teryna.”

“But not yer husband, not when there was a foreign Prince in need of a wife.” He shook his head. “I’ve loved ye since we were children; ye know that. “I saw how ye were with him,” he couldn’t bring himself to say Sebastian’s name. “And if _I_ couldn’t have ye, no one could.” 

His tears spilled over and coursed down his cheeks. Even if the rest of the world was blurry, he could tell his father was also weeping.

“Ye’ve brought us to ruin,” his father exclaimed. He sunk onto the bed, head in his hands. “I’m glad yer Mother’s not alive to see what ye have become. She’d die of shame for it.”

“Ye will confess,” Cecily said, voice low and even. “Ye will tell me Da what ye told me, and clear me name once and for all. And ye will accept his punishment for what ye’ve done.” 

Alain nodded, cold dread washing over him. She pushed past him and departed through the tunnels to her own quarters. Alain stared after her, eyes wide. His hands shook as he unpinned his cloak to change into something suitable.

“Leave it on,” his father said. “Go see the Teyrn as-is. For every plot, there’s a counterplot. Cecily will use ye to clear her name, and ye will do the same with her.” They left for the Teyrn’s apartments without delay.

“...Thank ye,” Alain said on the way. “I’m so sorry—”

“I’m doing this for our family, nothing more,” his father interrupted, eyes narrowed. “I refuse to see them perish for yer sins.” By the time they arrived at the Teyrn’s, Alain was visibly shaking. A hand closed over his.

“Ye know she’ll paint ye a villain, yes? Cecily, I mean,” his father asked. Alain nodded.

“Then trembling before her does nothing. Give her nothing to latch to; yer life depends on it,” he said, voice stern and sharp.

“Lord Trevelyan and Alain Trevelyan approach,” the porter announced, ushering them into the royal apartments’ vestibule. Alain’s breath hitched at the door. There was the Teyrn, eyes colder than the winter sea and expression just as deadly.

“Me daughter demanded an audience, Trevelyan,” the Teyrn said. “I am outraged to hear what she had to say.” He drew himself up to his full height: even seated, he was imposing. “Tell me why I shouldn’t execute ye right now for treason.”

Alain swallowed hard. This was it, his one chance to save himself. “Everything I did, Yer Highness, was for Cecily. I’ve risked me own life to save her from ruin and harm; Drummond beguiled me, tricked me with promises. And I, in me own jealousy, believed them.”

Alain launched into a retelling of his dealings with Drummond, stressing his devotion to Cecily as a motive. “Me return shows me sincerity and loyalty to the Crown, Yer Highness.”

“Fool of a boy,” the Teyrn muttered. He paused. “...Ye knew what he was up to, Edric?” he asked Alain’s father.

“I—” Lord Trevelyan began.

“He did not know,” Alain interrupted. “No one in me family knew. If anyone should be punished, Yer Highness, it should be me and me alone.”

The Teyrn raised his eyebrow. “Fine. From yer own mouth, be it: I decree, Alain Trevelyan, that ye’re found guilty of high treason and collusion against the royal house of Ostwick. Ye’re hereby sentenced to death by public execution three days hence. Now get out of me sight.” The Teyrn waved him away; guards crossed the room and seized Alain’s arms amidst his father’s protests.

“Wait!” Cecily cried. “Don’t kill him yet.” The Teyrn’s eyes were hard stone.

“Ye’re defending him, after all he’s done?”

“No. I say let him right the wrongs he’s committed. He sabotaged the alliance? Let him safeguard it with his life. If he succeeds, he’s cleared me and the Trevelyan name, if not...” Her words trailed off, but left a clear meaning behind. The Teyrn nodded.

“For the sake of yer long-standing friendship, I order ye, Alain Trevelyan, to slay Percival Drummond. Do so, and I will spare yer life and those of yer family. Fail me...” the Teyrn nodded, guards approached to seize his father. “And yer family’s lives are forfeited.”

The sudden turn of events made Alain’s body go numb. He nodded, falling to his knees before the Teyrn as the guards escorted his father out of the room. “T-Thank ye,” he said. “Thank ye, Yer Highness. Thank ye, Ceci—”

“The royal physician will tend yer shoulder,” the Teyrn said. “As soon as ye’re healed, ye’ll go to Starkhaven. _Do not fail me_ , Trevelyan,” he shouted. His outburst resonated off the walls. “...This audience is over,” he scoffed in disgust. With that, the Teyrn dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Alain clambered to his feet, bowing and trembling all the way to the vestibule. As soon as he was down the hall and out of sight, he sank onto a bench against the wall in a cold sweat, heart pounding. He’d saved himself, but at what cost?

“Some knots cannae be undone,” he whispered to himself, “only severed.” He grabbed his stomach and retched at the thought of it all.

* * *

Fenris perched on the edge of his nephew’s bed, book in hand, like he did every night. And, like every night, Leto squirmed with anticipation for their bedtime story.

Fenris smiled, “shall we continue with the fables, or shall we try that storybook you got for Satinalia, messere?”

“New book, new book,” Leto cheered. Fenris had brought the book of Orlesian fairytales with him, opening to the first tale, ‘La Barbe Verte…’ whatever _that_ meant.

“‘ _Once upon a time,_ ’” Fenris began, “‘ _there lived a very wealthy Duc, who owned many grand chateaus, filled with many beautiful, fine things—gilded carriages, velvet cushions, the fastest steeds in Orlais. Indeed, Monsieur le Duc had everything…including a beard a most unfortunate shade of bright green, the same color of Tevinter…limes_.’” Fenris blinked at the page amidst his nephew’s giggles. “ _Green_ hair? He needs to wash his beard better,” he said, just to make Leto laugh harder.

“ _Maamaji_ ,” Leto tugged in his sleeve, “don’t stop!”

Fenris continued the tale of the only girl in Thedas who agreed to marry the sad duc. The girl saw his beautiful, noble heart, and loved him dearly for it. He finished the tale, the room falling into a comfortable silence. He felt Leto stir against his ribs.

“ _Maamaji_ ,” his nephew said, “will you be gone a long time?”

Fenris sighed; “Not _too_ long, we will be back before the New Year,” he replied with a brave smile. “We can celebrate together with chocolate cake, won’t that be fun?”

Leto didn’t return his smile. “But I don’t want you to go.” He shifted against him, wrapping his arms around Fenris’s waist. “...I love you, _Maamaji_.”

Fenris gasped slightly, his heart smiling at those words. “I-I love you, too, Leto.” He realized, he’d never, in all his life, said ‘I love you’ to anyone. Something shifted inside once he uttered the words, such powerful words they were. He held the boy close. “I love you so much.”

“But what if you leave and don’t come back?” Leto asked, voice thick. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Fenris gently wiped them away. 

“Of course, I’ll be back,” he replied. “You’re my favorite nephew; you can’t be rid of me so easily. And don’t forget, you’re the man of the house now, yes?” 

“I am?” a sleepy Leto yawned. Fenris tucked his nephew in.

“Sleep well,” he said, smoothing the blanket around the boy’s shoulders. “We have a busy day tomorrow.” Leto’s tears haunted him while he changed for bed and scrubbed his teeth.

“Why am I doing this?” Fenris whispered into his washcloth. “We’ve just found each other, and here I am ripping my family apart again.” He was grateful he was alone, for it wouldn’t do to let anyone see his tears. Fenris scoffed and swore. “Come on, pull yourself together,” he said, wiping his face, “Rana will feel your magic a mile off.”

 _“There_ you are! I was just coming to get you,” Rana said.

Fenris stared, biting the inside of his cheek to distract himself. Maker, he would miss her so much in Ostwick. There were a thousand emotions swirling inside him, none of which he could voice, some he didn’t recognize, let alone know how to explain. The words frittered away, leaving his tongue a useless stone.

“What’s wrong, _ya habibi?_ ”

He threw his arms around her and held her tight. “I love you, Rana,” he blurted, inhaling deeply. She smelled as she always did, of jasmine and orange blossom; it was so utterly her, so utterly his home. “I always will, _jaanu_.”

She gasped against him. “You said it,” she said, grinning. “Y-You actually said it, after all this time.”

He scoffed a laugh. “I said it three weeks ago.” She swatted his arm. 

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , you did, I would’ve remembered that. When? When did you say it?” Fenris couldn’t hold back the laughter; she was simultaneously adorable and slightly frightening when swearing in Tevene.

“When we were baking chocolate cake for Satinalia,” he replied. “In my defense, it _was_ in Seheran.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “So my sister-in-law knew before I did, huh?”

“And the dogs.” Fenris’s face went hot when she raised her eyebrow. “Makes up for all the times you’ve said it in Lebanese,” he replied, gently pushing her hair from her face. “…I love you, Rana.”

He kissed her, not letting go while she led him through the door and towards the bed. Warmth surged through him as their kisses grew more passionate. The rest was a tempest, a fire that consumed them both and left them breathless; they couldn’t get enough of each other. Reckless in its abandon, impulsive—freeing, actually. Later that night, Fenris held his beloved close, humming his favorite song as he rubbed tiny circles into her shoulder. Rana stirred against his chest. 

“Where are you?” she whispered. “You’re far away tonight.”

“I was thinking of Leto,” he replied. “He’s worried I won’t return. Was in tears about it, actually. I…I want to give him something, as a reminder that we’re always with him.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A matching pendant to mine?” That sparked Rana’s interest.

“That’s a beautiful idea, _habibi_ —ooh, with little silver charms to represent the rest of us! It’ll be adorable!” 

“You mean amulets to ward off evil? I didn’t know those could represent people.” She lifted her head off his chest.

“What? No. Little trinket-things, like the ones on my bracelet. You know the one.” He did; there were so many silver figurines and symbols hanging from the chain around her wrist, she jingled when she moved. He often joked with Sebastian that she came with her own percussion.

“What ought we choose for Varania and Sebastian?” He was completely certain that this would become another Rana El-Khoury business, by the way she listed the possibilities. “And it’s so easy, Fen: carved beads and charms on a chain or cord, that’s all it is. They were all the rage in Beirut.”

“We’ll visit Gimmel’s in the morning, see what can be done,” he promised.

The next morning was, just as Fenris had predicted, a perpetual stream of packing and shopping. “Ran, do you have enough warm clothes?” he asked while perusing the market stalls. “Buy some more layers, to be sure.” 

They stopped at Gimmel’s, then at several other stores. When the Chantry bells announced midday, they headed towards home. 

“Thank you for marketing with me, Ran.”

“What?” she asked. “‘Marketing?’” 

“For the trip. I appreciate you marketing with me.”

“ _Habibi_ , that was ‘shopping,’ not ‘marketing.’” He blinked at her.

“You told Merrill to ‘market’ for her clinic, and she went shopping at the market.”

“‘Marketing’ is advertising. I told her to put up signs for her clinic, not…” She laughed. “You’re so adorable.” Fenris’s face went hot.

“I-I am _not_ adorable.” Rana pecked his cheek.

“You’re proving quite the opposite, you know,” she replied. They arrived home, arms full of parcels, bolts of fabric, and sacks of sundries, all of which Sebastian assisted in packing.

“Does Rana confuse you with her words and ideas?” he asked Sebastian, folding a doublet.

“Constantly,” Sebastian replied. “I dinnae mean any disrespect, Fen, but she speaks in riddles half the time, things I’ve never heard about.”

“And yet her ideas are so successful. You know she got Gimmel’s to sell a new type of bracelet today? A charming bracelet, I think she called it. People can choose their beads and amulets and such. Ser Gimmel was overjoyed. Designed at least twenty of them today.” 

“Truly? No wonder ye took forever with yer marketing.” He packed a valise with toiletries. “I swear, Lebanon must be a whole other world, with all their different ideas.”

They spoke of their plans for court as they finished packing. Fenris thought they’d never finish, but the last shoe found its way into the trunk, the last scarf laid out. He spent every moment he could with Rana—practicing music, chopping onions, stealing away upstairs for ‘alone time,’ he didn’t care. But nothing distracted him from his unease, not even Thursday Card Night with Varric and Donnic.

“You’re certain you arranged the movers and the transport wagons?” he asked Varric for what felt like the tenth time alone that night.

“And the security measures. We’re ready, Elf,” Varric said. “Just focus on the game, already. You’ve lost ten silvers with all your worrying.” If Varric had told him to catch the moons with a fishing net, he would’ve had an easier time of it.

“I’ll have your escort waiting for you at the city gate,” Donnic said, discarding. “All good men; hand-chose them myself. I know you embark on dangerous encounters; they’ll keep you safe on the road.”

“Many thanks,” Fenris and Sebastian said simultaneously. They exchanged looks and returned to their hands. 

“I can’t stay like this,” he told himself that night while lying in bed. “Something must be done.” The next morning, he rose before the dawn. He silently dressed, propping a note on his pillow for Rana to see.

> _‘Ran—_
> 
> _Out for errands in Lowtown. Will return later. I have a sword with me._
> 
> _-Your Fen.’_

He tied on his cloak and strapped his longsword to his belt before leaving for Merrill’s. If he hurried, he’d reach the clinic before it opened. Fenris lengthened his stride and crossed the still-empty Hightown market to the bridge, drawing his cloak around him. Frost covered the cobblestones, leaving them slick beneath his boots. Lowtown was just stirring when Fenris turned the corner into the Alienage. His stomach grumbled at the smell of fresh-baked loaves from the bakery. 

“Faron, sit,” Merrill shouted over the mabari barking behind the door. She cracked open the door, still bleary-eyed. “Fenris? What are you doing here?” she yawned. “Is everything alright?” 

“Apologies for waking you, but I need some…guidance, please,” he replied. 

“How can I help?” she asked, filling the teapot with fresh water. Fenris laid the fire for her, unsure where to begin.

“It’s been... three months, since you removed the brands. And for the past three months, I’ve— t-there’s all these…emotions I’ve never felt before. I don’t understand them. I was appointed Sebastian’s Commander in Chief, but now with Rana and my family, I just...” He sighed. “I _know_ that this campaign will secure our future, but what’s the point if something happens to my family along the way?” She handed him the teapot, face thoughtful.

“Have you spoken to Sebastian about it?”

“ _No_ , it’s—things are different now; we’re still like brothers, but he’ll soon be Prince. And with the move, planning the wedding, and tutoring Leto: I can’t burden Rana with this. I-I don’t want to leave my family, Merrill, I just found them. I can’t sleep anymore, or control my magic: what will happen if my magic manifests in Ostwick? It’ll ruin everything.” Magic stirred within him, threatening to manifest. He pressed his hands to his sternum, taking a deep breath. “What’s wrong with me? I never was this way.”

There was sympathy in Merrill’s eyes. “I can give you something.” 

He stared at her, green eyes wide with concern. “Merrill, is this something serious?”

“It’s not serious at all, Fenris. You’ve healed your body exceptionally well, and now your heart’s healing. You’re feeling things you never have, because of it, and that’s good. The timing isn’t perfect, but it will all balance out, I promise,” Merrill explained. She mixed bottles of tincture. “Write to me if it persists; I can send a prescription for the apothecary in Ostwick.”

Fenris let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Merrill; didn’t know what was happening to me,” he said, “I feel better already.” She smiled. His hope carried him through the day, and into the next: their day of departure.

The entire household rose before dawn on Saturday. He dressed in his warmest clothing, forcing himself not to think of the long, cold ride, as his trembling fingers fumbled with the laces.

“ _Ya habibi_ ,” Rana said, “let me.” She gently took his hands away and tied for him. “…You’ll be fine. I’m very proud of you, Fenris; even if the Ostwickers refuse your proposal, I want you to know that. I will always be proud of you, and prouder still to be your wife.” He smiled at her.

“Thank you,” he whispered. She kissed him and escorted him downstairs. A train of porters followed behind as the entire household made their way to the gates. 

Fenris couldn’t help but feel that there were eyes watching them, that there was someone following them. He threw several glances over his shoulder, hand on the hilt of his sword. Nothing. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion nagging him all the way to Lowtown. 

Their friends were all waiting at the city gates—Aveline and Donnic oversaw the escort and the carriage, while Varric and Merrill brought last-minute gifts.

“Travel safely, you two,” Merrill said, hugging both of them. “I’ve brought you snacks for the journey, and embrium tea to keep you warm. Should last you to the inn.”

“Thank you,” Fenris replied, eyes searching for their stalker. The street was now congested with morning deliveries and tradesmen. He didn’t notice any obviously suspicious people lurking around corners or doorways. 

“I hate goodbyes,” Varric was saying, “so I’ll say ‘see you for New Year’s,’ Elf. And write to me often, you hear? Good luck with securing the alliance.” Fenris nodded, pulling him into a hug.

“I think someone’s following us,” Fenris whispered in his ear. 

“I know, we’re on it,” Varric replied. “We’ll keep your family safe, don’t worry. Double security, too.”

“My thanks.”   
  
“ _Maamaji_ ,” Leto said, tugging Fenris’s sleeve, “I’ll miss you.” Fenris knelt and hugged him tightly.

“I’ll miss you, too. Be a good boy for your mother and auntie, yes?” Fenris took the small box from his belt pouch. “…I want you to have this,” he said. “As a reminder that you’re never alone; we’re always with you.” Leto opened the lid and gasped.

“It’s your pendant,” he said.

“No, it’s a matching pendant, just for you. And look.” He pointed to the six silver charms flanking the carved malachite. “Everyone is here: me, your mother, Maami Rana, Uncle Sebastian—”

“And Tavvie and Tommy!” The tiny pawprints twinkled in the dawn. Fenris chuckled and slipped the cord around his nephew’s neck, holding the boy close.

“Are we doing a group hug? I love those,” Rana said, squeezing Fenris from behind.

“A group _what_?” the rest of them asked. 

“Come on, Varania, Sebastian. Everyone: a giant group hug before we go.” 

He could always count on Rana to bring smiles to people’s faces even with her most unusual ideas. To see the Captain of the Guard hugging a dwarf, who was hugging a prince, who hugged an elf was rather amusing, doubly so when Faron insisted on partaking, too. 

“Write to me when you arrive at the inn,” Varania said in Seheran. 

“Love you,” he said, wrapping his sister in a hug. “Stay safe.” Rana’s farewell was the most difficult; she held him tightly, neither wanting to let go.

“We’ve said our goodbyes, and are on our way,” Sebastian said. He found Merrill’s jar of tea and raised it in toast. “To Ostwick. May we conquer all that we set out to do.” 

Fenris echoed Sebastian’s sentiment. He leaned his head against the carriage wall, lifting the canvas flap serving as a window. His eyes went wide when a cloaked figure stepped from a shadowy doorway, watching the carriage leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I patterned the Orlesian story Fenris read to his nephew after Charles Perrault’s 'Bluebeard'… except there aren’t literal skeletons in the closet, and it has a happy ending. It’s much more child-friendly, that way. Hence ‘Greenbeard.’ :)
> 
> What is your favorite fairytale? <3 
> 
> Love,  
> Verdigirl


End file.
